Two Worlds Apart
by Lyanna Kane
Summary: The martyr. The tyrant. The maiden of steel. He went through three Hellsing masters, and yet one would wonder whether the either managed to tame him… (saga of the 20-21th centuries)
1. Prologue

**Rating:** PG-13, might go up to R

**Author's notes at the end of the Prologue.**

_Prologue_

_Early 1900s - ?__ (Undetermined due to nature of death)_

_Christopher Hellsing_

Admittedly, fortune can be unexpectedly kind. And by my reasoning, it was curiously generous towards a lineage it had supposedly damned at the hand of its mad pater familias, when cousin Robert rode to our salvation. Cousin Robert, clad in the fantastic shining armour all proverbial knights ought to wear and leading his invincible army of solicitors and accountants from his Scottish shelter and all the way down to the outskirts of London.

Naturally, gratitude dawned upon me and my every pursuit. How good of Cousin Robert to come, and how much of a hero he was under the dreadful circumstances. I was more than fascinated by this new proof of the good old Hellsing fortitude burning in at least one part of the family that was still bearing the name. I proceeded to show my enthusiasm by a far too rigorous attempt at grasping control of the estate's staff and arranging for Robert's accommodation as well as a luxurious dinner.

A straining effort, and far too soon. Or so doctor Lewis complained, and I apologized immediately. Doctor Lewis had quite enough to worry himself with already, and he hardly required my help in sending him down that little path to the breakdown of the overworked. How selfish of me.

I could only have found some fault for my behaviour in the three unnatural stimuli in my life, at that turning point: the first had been Papa's death.

Papa who, at an age when other men were busily preoccupied with their politics and their social calls, was strolling through the New World, and then Europe some, to only run upon Mother England sporadically. He'd died a man still young, or so were my thoughts. But then, I've always looked upon death as taking people in their youth, regardless of their true age. Papa's unfortunate demise had also attracted the second shocking news: the matter of my inheritance, and the need to take over a manor and estate notorious for its management troubles, and from which I had been carefully spared from early youth.

And thirdly, a matter that, unlike the rest, pleased me greatly, Cousin Robert was coming by. I was thrilled. I was convinced that his presence would make for a heavenly influence, in more ways than one. We'd both attended Oxford, as good nobility should. I had been more than content with being allowed to finish off my academic years in accord with the rest of the class, and the double mastery in Law and Languages had somehow been more than sufficient by my tastes. Unlike me, however, Robert had recognized the potential of the British economy, and had escaped Uncle Thomas' urges towards the respectable Medicine by joining the rank of successful, first rate accountants and managers.

Professionally, all could admit to Robert's merits presently. And by all, one could understand Hellsing's – it had become habit for the manor to keep its Victorian name, whereas we, the more proper representatives of the appellative, would lurk in the shadows- personnel, who had more than once had to claim they couldn't cope. And indeed they couldn't.

Hellsing, hardly of modest dimensions, was not the problem in itself. The management of a house, albeit a huge one, could be placed on the shoulders of a more enduring gentleman, and to blazes with all else. The main concern, however, was the estate in itself. The grounds that came with it were, unlike the house, not as easily disposable. Papa, as all gentlemen who'd opted for discrete lodging a few good miles beyond the urban extents of London, had also accepted the rural disadvantages to come with this newly acquired intimacy. We had sheep and horses, for one thing, and these had to be seen to. Unless I was mistaken, and I could sadly not see how that could be the case, we also had to deal with a small assembly of tenants. In short, a great deal of work, and not one for the unaccustomed.

By the time Robert came, we were desperate for his services.

And again by own confession, one shall have to remark, however, that it was not only the economical factor for which I held a keen interest in Robert's return to Hellsing. It was also a matter of Robert himself, Cousin Robert, the only lighthearted support in my adolescence.

With Papa being constantly out on some expedition or the other, I had been left with only a reluctant but friendly nana and the Hellsing estate for company. It had all been quite sudden.

"The little angels are now playing with your brother, Christopher," nana had one day announced to an oblivious five year old with not a care in the world, but who'd then learnt that it was an awful thing whenever angels chose to play, since it invariably meant Papa would be leaving. His grief for my departed brother had been too much, poor man, and I likely only reminded him of the event. Which is why we spent much time apart, though maintaining good correspondence. He was a loving and devoted father, but there were some things that not even he could handle. I understood.

But I was still very much alone, that is, and then I had to leave Hellsing and nana, and I was desperate. Until I found cousin Robert, that is. Humorous, good natured cousin Robert, who was at his finest under Oxford's care, just barely resuming his first year in Medicine (which he was to desert completely at the end of no more than an year in his quest for the mathematical letter) when we first laid eyes upon each other.

I, four years his junior and therefore still scrubbing away at a private school that I could barely be counted for to attend, had been amazed by the lively youth that had somehow made his way to the salon at my fifteenth anniversary.

He had come to deliver me a gift of Papa's, but I convinced him to stay just a bit more, if only to give rest to his horse. He did, and he was dazzling. With no care for the boundaries between the brutal fact and vulgarity, perseverant and witty, he was, in the end, the utter charmer. And to a young man mostly confined to his quarters or even worse, his bed, this new source of constant and radiating life was enthralling.

We wrote often, but as things would have it, he left Oxford just as I joined in, and our roads parted indefinitely.

As I was later to find, after shattering all of Uncle Thomas' dreams of having yet another Hellsing in the medical elite, Robert followed on the adventurous lead of all novel heroes and completed his escapade by eloping with a Welsh girlie well beneath his own station, earning his disinheritance and producing an heir by little less than the year! Ah, such a thrilling life, and such a thrilling man Robert was, and how good it would be to have him back!

------------

The new Robert surprised me.

While during the funeral we both stoically maintained the fashionable stiff upper lip that had built the Empire and garnished its fame, we had the following day for a few more or less intimate exchanges that would decidedly depict my darling cousin Robert in quite the new light:

"My bad, old boy, such a horrid affair. And of course Uncle Abraham was a mess with such things, but, really, this oughtn't bear any substance to you – what with the way things are and the likes- and you shouldn't concern yourself with it, dear Kester. I shall tend to the whole of it."

He did.

The youthful rapacity had transformed in a frightening efficiency. And to the house I had returned to as a outsider, and an incompetent one, at that, he made several much needed improvements. He named a manager for the tenants (A Mister J-o-h-n E-l-l-i-o-t). Two caretakers for the animals. He even made brilliant use of Hellsing's capital to invest in new equipment.

By comparison, all my attempts for the past two days since own arrival had been complete failures.

Of course, under the hideous circumstances, perhaps I had not allowed sensible thought to govern over my instincts, and had indeed been in error in believing I could cope with the situation at hand on my own – it had appeared to me more than logical, almost my responsibility, to maintain appearances in my own little hell, by being outwardly bereaved for the loss of a father that half the English kin had either vowed to kill with own hands or demanded so of others. The other half had likely petitioned his sanctification.

It was, all things considered, quite the understatement that Papa had not been the most loved of creatures, even if in the eyes of the God he so cherished, he had been the worthiest and most disciplined of his disciples. It was to my belief that so pure and lasting had been his devotion, that many had been driven to somehow deter from such a radiant centre of the theological universe, in order not to taint it.

Or so one tells oneself, when one quietly speculates on the reasons behind the sole family to have accepted the official invitation to Abraham Van Helsing's last services being a cousin on the part of a family line twice removed.

------------

On this particular respect, Father had been a worthy predecessor. Throughout years, and particularly after Mama and my brother – who has grown part of Hellsing myth and was not be named so not to disturb poor Papa- had gone to the better place, he'd alienated himself from all our blood ties. He'd had quite the number of cousins himself, but they'd all done the wondrous disappearing act soon after his first discoveries in a line hastily banned as the occult.

But where Papa had been an undeniable success, I sadly outmanoeuvred him. It is common knowledge that often do orphans (and with no Mama, and a Papa constantly plaguing the continents, I was decreed an orphan in an earnest) have a certain, unfounded inclination for both finding and bestowing love and gratitude on those who've either no need or merit for it.

To the great misfortune of my fierce blood relations, I had never been the humble, quavering soul that my nana and a large gamma of tutors should have liked to modulate – therefore, when Uncle Thomas had presented himself at the door of an unsuspecting and decidedly far too cynical thirteen year old, he had not been greeted with the expected enthusiasm. There had been no wails of despair, or tears or relief, or dramatic: "Oh, Uncle Thomas, how good you are, and how kind, to relieve me of my misery and my solitude and my burdens. Please be my hero, since Papa has abandoned me."

I had not thrown myself at his feet and offered eternal allegiance as well as affection, and I had not constructed him a medieval altar as one should to the charitable god who materializes under one's very eyes. He claimed he had come to bring me to a home where I would be better cared for, in my father's absence. He also requested all documents placing myself as sole beneficiary of the van Helsing estate once I would grow of Age. For safe keeping under his instruction, or so were his words.

Well, certainly, he was likely considering my welfare. All the same, I did not grant him permission to occupy Father's apartments indefinitely, as neither did I give him full command over the manor's staff. In fact, my hospitality was barely extended to a number of meals and a very few nights' accommodation. It was with a cold smile that Uncle Thomas retired that evening, noting that indeed the little attention paid to my education was showing. Apparently, Papa ought to have refrained from his voyages and kept to teaching me manners, especially manners towards my own kin.

How wicked of Uncle Thomas. I knew my manners well – but I also knew, and this Papa had always underlined, that I had obligations, first, and then desires. I was to write to him for instruction at once, and I did. To Switzerland, I believe, went the letters of those times. I expected Papa to reply with reprimands on my cold approach to Uncle Thomas' proposal. After all, he could only delight in the knowledge of his remaining son being in better care than that of his servants, and would know to bless his brother's days to no end. Instead Papa claimed to be a touch grieved by what he considered to be Uncle Thomas' little consideration for his parental abilities, and ended an insufferably short letter with the lines:

"Stand strong and take deep breaths. And inform Thomas that I am saddened by his disposition. You were not left in London by a prodigal father who is unaffected by your condition. You are in better hands than my own, and better than his. You were left in the care of God." And scribbled, his signature, a paraphrase of his name, and then the twisted word, Amen.

In the care of God. Amen to that, then.

"In the care of God?!" Uncle Thomas was understandably dissatisfied with the new turn things had taken. He was quite capable and prepared to take on a substantial number of figures of authority; but it had never quite occurred to him that this authority might well be divine.

We were breaking our fast, together, and in what had been unshattered silence until the distasteful matter of my tutelage had been brought up, and I had had to produce the reply hastily. Poor Uncle Thomas. He'd meant well, and I was indeed obliged for his care and his intentions to see that my youth would not be clouded by the troubles of the estate's management. Laurence Fairfax, one of my few acquaintances from my time at Oxford, was to later on suggest that his had not been an interest supported only by sibling affection.

But it could hardly be the truth of it. Beyond doubt. No one could do such a thing, try to rob a child of his fortune, and particularly not one's nephew. At times, Laurence did have an unhealthy mind, but I expect this must only have been the result of the corruption he'd known at the hand of his perusals through London.

"Uncle Thomas-"

"It has never been a question of his emotional considerations, but I'll be damned if it's not one of his sanity!" Tea cups fell with a considerable cling, and then his porridge flooded the cloth, as he pushed over the table, raising. I had never known violence, in the actual sense. The most I had experienced of it were words spoken in rage on my nana's part, and then threats that God had punished me and would keep punishing me by the illness. But I could see why Uncle Thomas could be considered a violent man, and, sadly, I had been experiencing a chaotic headache that only increased when shouts and cries reached my hearing. "You are unfit to be cuddled here by an incompetent nurse, and to reign over an estate that shall be your undoing!"

"I am in my father's care, sir," I had said softly, pressing both hands to my temples. It hurt to – hurt to think.

"And your father is a fool!"

"Sir, " – I was standing now, though a touch dizzy- "Sir, I ask that you respect my father under the roof of his own house-"

"HIS house?" He spread his arms around, theatrically, twisting on his heels as if to surround the entire room in the circle of his hands. He drove the maid in service in a fit of alarm, as she sped away from the dining room, likely calling up nana. "This isn't his! This isn't yours to handle!" He stopped to look at me. "Is this to your comprehension? Do – YOU - Understand?"

My head was hurting, an ache beyond words haunting the ends of my skull and the insides in turn.

"This doesn't belong to you. And if he thinks he can stroll through Europe and leave the place in ruins and his ickle bastard tending to it," – my –my vision. My vision, blurred, and the pain in my head, and, oh God, the room, and Uncle Thomas was moving his hands, and he was now holding my shoulders, and he was shacking me, and I was disappointing him, and my head heart. There was an unimaginable array of shape and shade and colour, and my head hurt, and so did my arms, since he was pulling at them, and yelling. "He's certainly round the bend! This is my heritage, and not a corpse's!"

"I…"

Clang.

Something.

Something breaking.

I.

My hands.

Clasped.

On the- the…the- the cloth.

My head.

I-.

Gods.

And then nothingness took me along with the first of the illness' attacks, the first of so many after.

------------

Uncle Thomas left. As soon as my body permitted it, I followed on his suite. I was not to linger in a place where I was unwanted – but unwilling to disappoint Father on the matter, my one solution was to discreetly dismiss my tutors and move nana to the heart of London. I myself began to express an uncharacteristic love for study in my letters to Papa, and was quickly granted permission to join a private institution with a helpful boarding system. By the age of thirteen, I had already written up my future in stern terms: finish prep in boarding, then join Oxford under some mastery or the other, and avoid Hellsing manor completely.

As for my disease…it was quickly qualified.

------------

"Has he got bad blood, doctor?" Each of nana's questions, as she assaulted the doctor who'd come to my side after the inexplicable disaster with Uncle Thomas was accompanied by a short pet on my head, as if to calm me. But I wasn't afraid. It's been years, now, and I'm still not the one afraid of it all.

Besides, nana's claims were amusing. Bad blood, more popularly translated as dark blood or the plague, can't have made its way to the civilized regions, not anymore. But it might have so seemed to the woman frighteningly bent over me, following the doctor's moves in performing a more than ancient procedure without which she would not have agreed to let him end the consultation. A leach had been planted on my left arm – "to take the bad demon blood, if they've taken to the soul of nana's boy!"- , and as its results was creeping in the growing bulb, the doctor was frowning considerably.

"More of a question of no blood, "he said in an end, disposing of the pestering thing. I gave it a disgusted look that only intensified upon seeing the great quantity of blood it had sucked right out. Doctor Percival Fallins only shook his head, and accompanied his next remark with a certain bitterness:

"It took out that much because it didn't get to the very thing it needs for feeding." Both nana and I gave him long looks, but to no avail. He recommended a great deal of rest, that all further signs of weakness on my part be noted down, and then retired to write to Father.

"Don't ye worry, dearie," – another pet on my head, pulling back all rebel shreds of pale hair- " it'll be all right. Your blood is fine, the doctor's a fool, there's nothing wrong with it."

Now, twelve years later, I could safely attest to that my blood was indeed wrong. Your pardon, nana. But it was. I didn't know the name for it, but they say it took its time to fester. They offered a list of symptoms, and I could scribble out all of them as "do-did-done"s.

Fatigue. Weakness. Increased pallor. Reduced exercise tolerance. Excessive weight loss. Bone and joint loss. Infection and fever. Blurred vision. Faints. Blood losses.

Do.

Did.

_Done_.

------------

"Here, have a glass," said Robert of the present, Robert aged thirty and still looking his prime, with a playful flicker in his azure eyes. Eyes that were the family's symbol, and eyes that could shine so beautifully. I could tell why many would look upon Robert and think him a beautiful man, for, clearly, his vitality and the sheer power he emanated made for beauty in its more basic sense.

We were in what had been Papa's study, books still as neat and as organized as he had left them, years and years ago. I had half expected the dramatic layers of dust that one commonly encounters in Greek or Latin plays – and naturally I could only think of those things, since my head was now filled by Boethius and his Wheel of Fortune. And how that wheel had turned upon me, bringing me back to a place I should have liked to forget.

The claret glass was heavy in my hands, by the time I returned to reality. Robert, seated on one of the sofas laid carefully near the fireplace was inspecting me with cold precision. "You look a fright."

I nodded. I always did. "You on the other hand-"

He waved me off, then took a full sip of his own ration, clearly pleased by the content and likely assessing its nature and the time of its keep. "No time for chatter, old boy. I came here-"

"Of course, how horrible of me, forgive me, I never thanked you for your support-"

"Christ, Kester, will you let me speak word? One, at the very least?"

"Your pardon."

Alcohol brought a healthy blush to his cheeks, or so I could tell. To begin with, this image reminded me more and more of the Robert I had known and cherished. "And cease this behaviour at once! Apologizing to everything and everyone..."

I nodded again, and reminded myself of the virtue that patience truly was, devouring his every gesture as, easily enough, his hands produced an enclosed and heavily sealed envelope. I watched it in astonished silence.

"It's for you," Robert offered as one instruction, along with the letter itself. "From the very Bishop of Canterbury. We met recently, on a little official occasion. Two days ago, in fact. He asked that I should deliver it."

More nodding on my part. This irritated Robert, who was stoically in charge and tried to eliminate his exasperation by several sighs.

It was white, very white, in all truth, and the protestant blessing had been scribbled somewhere in a corner. The sheet was of good quality, and the seals, I could see, were of fine, veritable wax, and carrying the King's emblem. The Archbishop of Canterbury, first, and now the King. Oh Gods. And this likely concerned my father.

Robert handed me a knife from the study, a sleek letter opener in indisputably good taste. "Do you wish me to leave?"

I eyed him in puzzle. Leave? Why would-

Oh. _Oh_. Etiquette had escaped me this particular time, and it still did, as I considered the inquiry. Why should I not let him have a look? It was devious and wrongly-disposed of people to go found their mistrust on the assumption that people would betray them. The human being, at its core, was universally good – so I had concluded- and was therefore only encouraged by our mistrust to betray us. We were unknowingly incurring maelstrom. Why not give our human peers the sporting chance?

"No, no, of course not. I'm indebted to you in so many ways. I could never begin to keep secrets from you."

He retook his seat. "Quite. What does it say?"

I viciously fought with the incredibly obstinate seal for a while, before the two edges slid smoothly, and the content was revealed.

The lecture was easy. The language, though polite, lacked formality. The Archbishop was wishing us all the best, and conveying his deepest sympathies for our loss, as well as ensuring me that we had the Church's and His Majesty's full support for the task upon which we were embarking.

Robert's amusement knew no limits. "What task? One needs His Majesty's support to see to a bloody funeral? Are people expected to schedule their deaths in accordance to when His Majesty may offer his support?" I shrugged and kept reading.

What followed were many theological blessings, as well as a few awkward phrasings and Latin maximae for which Robert instantly asked that a translation be provided. I tried to put my modest and far too rusty ancient Latin skills at use and oblige.

"Recall that the evildoer may lurk within all shadows, even those of the heart and mind," I quoted solemnly, folding the Archbishop's note in two and then picking up a separate sheet, tied in turn.

"From Abraham to Christopher, greetings," I paused, choking on my sudden reluctance to go further. This was my Father, my Papa, but it was not his writing in the least. I could only imagine someone else had scribbled it down, under his dictation. Likely on his - on his death bed. It was common, dramatic practice that the dying attempt to write up their last wishes, maybe even splutter the sheet a bit with blood, and that beloved sons imagine hells in an end and think always of their parents with pride and affection as of the heroes who devoted their last breath to their earthly welfare. Well, Papa had never been one for drama. This wasn't his writing, because he'd seen to it that it wasn't. He'd taken measures that I receive proper word on his part, and so I now did.

How…lifeless.

I continued as Robert made to pour himself another glass, and was greeted by an empty bottle. I passed him my glass, and he took it gratefully. Poor Robert. He needed it far more than I did.

"Many wrongs have I witnessed, but never quite as intense, or as willed, or as crude or carrying as much life as the one made by creatures who've left sentience behind. We believe, as we have always believed, that the spirit, upon death, requires a new haven, and that it haunts the hells or paradises of our respective religions afterwards.

A truth to be detested, but not questioned. God is mighty, and God is kind, and God wills it that we believe. I believe, Christopher, and so must you. There is one that even God should not like to have, not like to receive, the primordial evil. And this one is sent back, and it must compensate for its existence – by repaying the demons that have made it with pure life, and pure blood.

We have caught such an evil, Christopher, the evildoer " – and here I stopped to eye Robert, carefully. The Archbishop's words echoed thinly upon us, this much I could tell – "of all powers and all knowledge. This evildoer is now tied to us. It is our sacred duty to preserve these connections, to keep him restrained, no matter the cost, and personal sacrifices, and…"

I couldn't go on. I couldn't. I… but I did. I read, and read, and read, and read. And all the while, I think I should have liked to weep, or shout, or do anything close to such a thing. Father described unimaginable terrors, and unforeseen and unwanted theological paradoxes. He went on about creatures living in the night, creatures I had heard him speak much of in the past, but creatures I could not quite fathom. And one of them, he claimed, they had captured. He said little of "them", and mentioned few places, save for one distinct location that he accused to still shelter the "monster" : an address in London. I shuddered to think I had a few times visited the region.

Papa then spoke of experiments, horrible events, doings and butchering of mind and soul that, he noted, were not to be regarded as tortures so much as the purging of the sin. They'd cut his limbs. Starved him. Drained him of blood. Left him to wail alone for nights to no end. And all the while, they'd claimed to be his masters.

_ Vampires do exist. And you must see to it, that the first of them never know freedom_, Papa had finished, and then had come his signature, with the underlined Amen. Oh God, I could only bring myself to think, and "Oh God" was the only thing that escaped Robert's lips in addition to a full whistle.

"What insanity," Robert managed, decidedly more coherent than myself at the time. "You'll forgive me, Kester, but the old man was rather off the bend since then."

I said nothing to him, at first, nothing at all. But then, with a determination I could not recognize in myself (and one, too, that could have been looked upon as rude, given all the trouble cousin Robert had gone to, in order to help me), I called for the servants. Someone. Anyone. Robert's man Cadwell answered first, and it was to him that I entrusted my directions:

"Have a carriage prepared, please."

Robert was shocked beyond words and obviously felt I was either as off the bend as Papa, or close to it. "Surely you don't intend to-"

"I have to see it, Robert." A smile. He would have to understand. "They say there's evil there, and they say there's death. But" – I threw him the letters, the paper, everything – "they did such horrid things to it. If there's nothing there, we shall have nothing to report save for a distinctly amusing journey. And if there is…"

I stopped to think. Had to think. My head was hurting. So much. Too much. I had to think. Why couldn't I possibly think?

Papa had obviously wanted me to take his part, but I'd read by myself all that needed be known, and I still remembered that incident with Uncle Thomas, and how much Papa had hurt him – and, well, maybe Papa wasn't always right – not that he was at fault – this was all my fault – I should have been there – I…

I would be there.

I turned to Robert.

"If there is, we must go and make peace with death, and ask for its forgiveness."

------------

** Author's note:**

My thanks to **Asenath** for pointing out that perhaps long author notes that give out too much aren't all that wise a move, especially not at the stage of a prologue. Point conceded, and author note revised accordingly. Thanks again, and my apologies to all the readers of the initial notes, should they feel they have been "spoiled" to what's to come.

On the Hellsing properties. By the anime/manga, the only main property is the one in London. I think, however, that all gentlemen of the time would find it fit to keep a house in the country. Given Abraham's pursuits beyond the borders, that this manor should also bring some sort of profit (hence the estate and the sheep and the horses) would also be advisable. This is the second Hellsing manor, the one Christopher returns to, and the one under his charge.

Secondly, on Abraham van Helsing, Bram Stoker, and all such things – I've taken some (admittedly, unpardonable) liberties with both the timeline and the Hellsing lineage. Hopefully, this doesn't' make the concept unbearable. The son who died is supposedly poor Kester's brother, the one they weren't to mention in Abraham's presence, after his death. Before questions rise – no, Abraham's wife's not been forgotten.

Lastly, on Kester…the poor darling, he truly is as helpless and as in for a mess as he appears to be.


	2. Chapter I

**  Title:** Two Worlds Apart

**  Rating:** PG-13

**  Author's notes at the end of the chapter.**

Early 1900-? (Undetermined due to nature of death)

Christopher Hellsing

  It is often believed – or at least expected – that the errant knights of myth always know their path, if not their destination. They may wonder on their way… but the road is their familiar, and fortune is their ally, and they are to stroll with full belief, that indeed, they are the saints meant to enlighten the misfortunate.

  All this, of course, if the misfortunate allow for their enlightenment. As I was to find, Robert, to his own merit, was quite reluctant to follow his wavering Don Quixote…

  "Kester, have a seat."

   "Your pardon?"  This sudden invitation attracted my momentary confusion. Robert, still seated, was following the pale light reflecting in his glass' content with keen interest. He was also investing much effort in not looking at me directly, which spared me an invariably condescending expression.

  "Have a seat," he repeated with deliberate tardiness, "and let me ring for a bit of laudanum."

  "We haven't time, Robert, I shall take whatever you wish upon arrival in London-"

  But he was already standing and at the door, opening it slightly but enough as to make his summon for his butler and his further command heard throughout the corridor. It proved to be a meaningless procedure, as Cadwell, confirming my assessment of him as the perfect butler, stepped in seconds after the first call and offered his services. 

  "Cadwell, please deliver the recipient on my nightstand at once, and have a cup of the good ol' Earl prepared."

 I turned to face him as the door close tidily.

   "If night falls, we shall find ourselves in the impossibility of reaching London by tomorrow. And we must do so if we are to take Papa's place and see to his responsibilities," I stressed, in what I believed to be an unnecessary maneuver, as surely, Robert could see the importance and urgency of our future actions by himself. In fact, even this current delay was infuriating. I made for the door. "We've no time to spare, and I'm quite well, I assure you. If my condition concerns you, when we reach London-"

  "We're not to leave for London, Kester."  He slammed the door close before I could pass. "Ye gods, man, listen to yourself! You're a mess! You just received a vague letter from someone who was probably in delirium upon having it written-. "

  "He hadn't it written then." I extended my hand, and in it the letter, willing him to take it and verify by himself. "It's not his writing, look!"

  He gave it a meager look and was still unconvinced. "Still, it speaks of vampires! Vampires, Kester, superstition! Uncle Abraham was not well.  Father and I may disagree on many accounts, but this is hardly one of them. Vampires have no place upon this world, and so Uncle Abraham would spawn them one from fiction. And you wish to run off to the heart of the civilized world and crusade it for a hellspawn that's supposedly kept there? It's insanity, Kester, bloody insanity! And the first thing you do is demand that a _carriage _be arranged for?"

  I opened my mouth to retort, but no words would come. There had been logic to my request upon the time of my posing it, but it sadly failed to make itself known to me again presently. Robert was unimpressed. 

   "_Carriage_, Kester? When and where do you believed yourself to be? Everyone makes good usage of motors these days, man, even I do. I came here by motor, and so did you. I can imagine the little storm in your mind, but I shall cut it from its root, once and for all. You're not your father, Kester. You're not the mad doctor who exchanged one carriage for the other, going off to hunt phantasms! You're not compensating for his death by discarding all your obligations and following on his footsteps!" 

   My look of clear shock must have spoken of own accord, for Robert decided to show a bit of mercy while savoring his presumable victory. I was indeed in discomfort, but this discomfort was of a nature inconceivable for a man ruled by mathematical precision, expressed all too clearly in his argumentation. He could afford to be kind, now, that I was no longer voicing any opposition.

  "It's all my fault. I see that now." He gave me his most understanding smile and then laughed.  "I do. It was a terrible ordeal to undergo, especially for you. I confess I had believed that, well, since the two of you had obviously never got the chance to sustain too much affection, that maybe you hadn't too many ties to the old man. I was wrong, evidently, and you're very affected. But don't worry, I shall take care of everything, Kester, I will, you're too distressed to-" 

  "Robert, I'm not distressed. I can certainly understand why the circumstances would have it seem so – it was a momentary slip with the carriage, and I'm not following on Papa's pattern – and I'm hardly distressed. I can make amends, and am in full control over my own senses, especially my sense of the present." I breathed in. "I'm not distressed."

    I didn't carry on immediately. I could only look down at the impeccably tended for carpet on the just as impeccably well tended for flooring. And then at last I said in despair, "My full appellative recognized by King, Country, and the Crown of Justice is Christopher Hadrian van Hellsing. I am twenty-six years of age. Today is the eighteenth of January, and my father has joined the realm of the eternally righteous three days ago. See, Robert? I am in control, I hold knowledge of who I am and of the present circumstances, and I'm not distressed. "

  "You're not distressed?! Permit me, then, to make some regrettably belated introductions. Kester, meet reality. Dreamland," he said, pointing to the empty claret bottle viciously, "is over there."  A short gasp on his part, then, and he turned to measure me with clear discomfort. "Kester, you haven't been having a go at the winery, have you?"

   I shook my head, absently. Slowly, but surely, I was detaching myself from the setting, having each of Robert's words echo in the back of my mind, no more than a whisper to be neglected.

   "I shall be going, whether only by myself or not, " I was telling him, a short while after. He'd been speaking, all the time, and by his extensive gesturing, he was probably feeling very powerfully about what he'd had to say. Unfortunately, however, I'd not heard a thing, and I had more than my share of doubts that it should have matter even if I had. He was a worthy orator, but I was set on my ways, and when finally all the little wheels in my mind started rolling again – and when a convenient course of action had been devised- I did not hesitate to make my stance known. He was my cousin and I loved him. But for once, he was the one who did not understand a thing.

   The tone of my voice must have carried some intensity, or even command, because he was silent and regarded me incredulously. Almost as if he feared to question my sanity, should he not receive a positive reply, that yes, I was as round the bend as he believed Papa to have been.

   "Are you to accompany me?" 

   "You realize, of course, that there truly might be quite nothing there?" I said nothing. He looked up at me steadily. Tiredly. "I shall have to wire Gwendolyn. Lance and she…I can't well say what they were expecting, but I don't reckon it was such a delay on my part."

   I started on saying something but again found myself at a loss for the right thing to say. In my selfishness, I had never assumed that the family at home, Robert's family, could be as highly dependent of him as find themselves in the impossibility of tolerating his extensive absence. In light of things, however, they likely were. Gwendolyn, though a woman beneath our title and fortune, was a remarkable woman. Still, she was unable to run their keep smoothly with her man away and without further instruction. How selfish of me to deprive her of support, indeed.

   "Write to Gwendolyn and extend an invitation on my part." Robert's powerfully blue stare dawned upon me inexpressively. "Ask that both she and Lance come to the Hellsing manor for the season." I nodded, my enthusiasm fed by the conviction of it being a wise decision. "It may only do them well." 

   Robert laughed, pleased. The perspective of having his wife and heir in full reach must have held some distinct appeal.  "Why, yes, indeed... 'pon my honor, I might just do that. "

  "You've pen and paper there."  I gestured for the desk in the shadowed corner and the library near it. "Compound your message then see to your possessions while I attempt to develop a fundamental interest in clearing the mess in my papers."

   I left him bent over what announced itself to be an overly wordy message to his familiars, and emerged from the study with my hands filled with paper. Papa's reports were to be sorted, as I was to give them a second look during my voyage.

   The telephone rang, and so I was forced to take a turn to the nearest machine, in the guestroom. "Hullo?"

  "Hellsing residence, is it?" The voice was bright, enthusiastic –too enthusiastic- and with a faint accent I couldn't quite place. 

  "Yes, yes. This is Christopher He-"

  "Christopher Hellsing? How extraordinary! So good to hear from you – listen, I call from the very Saint Peter cathedral-" I frowned, mildly. I couldn't yet pin the place down, but it rang distinctly familiar. And religious. I may have been left in the care of God, but I'd definitely not been educated in our Lord's spirit.

   "We've been looking for you, and I'm sure by now you're well aware why, and of what great service you could be to the Church," said the voice.

   Well, such a pity. I didn't know of what service I could be of to the Church. But no doubt this had to do with some architectural project or the other. Papa was mad about them, and I'd personally been contacted one too many times by people who felt I could mediate the gathering of funds. "Please, just-  for anything of the sort – please – do address my father, Abraham van Hellsing."

   "But-"

   "He's far more informed on such matters," I assured him. And he was. Papa had studied theology in an earnest. "And he'll be certain to help you – nothing I personally can do for you. Goodbye.' I hung up immediately, and slightly amused. Really, how could they think I'd be of more help with such things, when Papa was clearly-

   But then I recalled the truth that I had mere moments ago paraded: Papa was dead, and I'd attended his funeral. Drawing in, I made for the halls, but only stopped briefly as I passed by a portrait of grandsire and my father, with the latter's Oxford diploma in full view. Papa had been a beautiful young man, I imagined, even though I myself was hardly too knowledgeable of the beauty patterns of the ages. Time had changed him, naturally – and only to the dramatic.

   Deep lines had carved their way into his sleek face. There wasn't a time I could remember him without a light scar at the base of his forehead. The brilliant sparkle in the grand, blue eyes I had always seen in picture, and never on the man himself.

  I suspected this was the last remnant of Papa's ever being human, vulnerable, young. The year after he'd started his expedition. He'd been no more than five and twenty.  

  I carried on my way. Perhaps there was a bit of merit to Robert's accusations, after all.

    "Sir…?"

  The great corridor greeted me by devoted Cadwell's solicitous call to attention. As, contrary to Robert's request, he was not delivering any form of medication, I was given the chance to hear of what exactly had kept him from the task at hand.

   "There's a party to see you, sir. I've taken the liberty of inviting them in the receiving hall, though I have mentioned that perhaps you should be too bereaved to attend to them presently."  Darling old Cadwell, so subtly hinting at that, were I unwilling or indisposed to see these men that'd wandered at my door, there was always a diplomatic way out of an otherwise uncomfortable situation. 

   There was hardly a point in delaying the inevitable. Besides, I could see how these people would be in rather the muddle once they were to realize I would be leaving shortly and they hadn't had the chance to address me on the matter of their respective interest.

  I let him lead me down to the receiving hall, even though – as Master of the house- I was much more familiar with the surroundings.

  The receiving hall had never been to my liking, although I suspected its construction must have been a consequence of Papa's many overlooked social obligations. As paradoxically as this may have sounded to the casual observer, it made perfect sense for those of us obliging in an active part on what was referred to as "the Hellsing front". After all, if one ignored one's responsibilities in a particular domain for a grander period of time, it was only natural to seek to make amends in one move heavily dependent on luxury. It was undeniably with such thoughts in mind that the receiving hall had been structured.

   Firstly, each and every – absolutely every – piece of furniture bore the family crest underlined in gold. I had half expected the pieces to be mahogany, also, but was saved from such troublesome revelations by the fact that propriety had deemed it unwise that darken woods be utilized in one's living chambers. The wood was instead, cherry, and it required as much as weekly polishing and waxing lest the dust settle in or the surfaces loose their effect. Even the carpentry was some rich embroidery or the other, because I recalled a certain time in my childhood when Nana had advised that I also walk on the exposed flooring of that room lest my feet tangle in some of the strings and the entire be undone.

  The place sickened me, though I could see why it would have been positively irreplaceable for a social event hungering dame de monde as Mama. My back still remembered the one too many occasions when bowing had been an unwanted and much detested necessity at her balls and small parties for twenty-four. Apparently, if one failed to bow explicitly and upon every sight to each of the present guests, then one was in the possession of a spine for no visible reason.

   The party was made of three, and before I laid eyes on their fancy suits, I could tell they were aristocrats, and Top Sharks, like Robert. I could smell success on them, and this success came in the form of expensive cigars. They'd managed to fill the tray they've been provided completely, and as Cadwell bravely refrained from urging them to cease at once, I felt compelled to make them at ease. I motioned for a second ashtray to be delivered, just as Cadwell, closing the door delicately behind us, also found fit to give it a few discrete knocks demonstratively.

   "Mister Christopher Hadrian Hellsing in attendance," he said, and this attracted their attention towards us instantly. I barely stifled a laugh at the irony of it. For days now, only the jovial "Kester" would reach my ears. And now that the drama had lessened, the more austere "Christopher Hadrian Hellsing" was indulged in. How quaint. I returned to my candid trio. Two of them, bearded and still of dark hair, retreated behind a third, blonde and elderly and cunning. Yes, above all else, cunning.

  He was also studying me. "Greetings from all round," he said. "M'lord Hellsing." It was respectful, not cynical nor impatient.

  "Greetings as well, sirs." I beckoned that they keep seated as they were, then pointedly leaned to the wall closest to the door, just as Cadwell made his way through. Message conveyed: I have no intention to waste more than the required time, and should appreciate it that you keep this in mind. Well, whether it was also a message received was debatable. With stoic charm, their delegate took his time in finishing a last cigar, whilst I carefully considered my plans for the night to come. In the end, even these were calculated, and they'd still not bothered to speak.

  I began harboring dark suspicions of a conspiracy among them and Robert: somehow, my cousin had grown metal orifices and had wired some of his acquaintances to delay me. Yes, of course, as soon as the interview had ended…

   …which it didn't seem to all too soon, as no one was uttering word here, no one at all…

  …someone?

  Please?

  We were on a schedule, after all….

  Speak? Now?

  Oh, I was ever so terribly sorry, had they perhaps burnt off their tongues with their incredible cigars? My bad, old boys, so were those exchanged glances no more than plea for help?

   Speak…

  You, yes, you, the bearded one from the window! I could see you throwing me looks, you mightn't have bothered with denying it, no- no! You fiend, you turned.

  You damnably turned.

   Everyone was turning and no one was speaking, and there was a weary, overworked lawyer here, fully equipped with the patience to win in a contest of stares and waiting.

   But with absolutely no desire to do so.

   Please turn.

   Please look.

   Please? 

   Faithful to his designated charge, the blonde finally spoke with mild interest, "Sir Hellsing…"

  Making a mental note to check whether Robert hummed or glowed in the dark, I looked up startled. "My Father's knighthood was a privilege to be earned, not inherited."

   He nodded, distantly, fishing for another cigar in handy pocket of his smart suit. "Quite so. We are Sir Trevelian" – a nod from the treacherous fiend who'd turned- "Sir Kilsby-Gaynes" –another nod of acknowledgment, from the remaining post - " and I must recommend myself: Gerard Meredith Huyxley."

   "Sir Huyxley," I repeated, noting the particular stressing of the Welsh influence. He himself nodded, this time.

   "We have come to deliver condolences." Draining, reluctant words that were to be spoken. "On the part of our Lord, His Majesty, King George the Vth."

    This was certainly something I hadn't imagined to be occurring, especially not then and there. Admittedly, a more solid response was to have been coming and should have been taken into consideration. His Majesty had already sported a keen interest in our lineage and, most importantly, in our welfare. Whatever their ties, Papa's actions had affected the crowned head of the country, as well as the country itself. I was forced to confess to a growing inner curiosity: what had Papa done, really?

   It appeared everyone was to nod in the interval of an hour – because I was the one nodding heartily this particular time, sketching a thin smile to acknowledge their kind words.

    "His Majesty is probably well aware that we are his to order and mold," I replied evenly, following all the rules of an unwritten etiquette.

   "And His Majesty appreciates your loyalty and assistance enough as to act upon his sentiments. Sentiments you should do well to reflect accordingly, Sir Hellsing." I bravely attempted to ignore the fact that, in spite of my considerable disagreement, the appellative was still being put to improper use. They were the King's emissaries, after all. Sir Trevelian – traitor, I say, traitor!- took a step forward, produced a small letter, handed it in. Sir Huyxley, sketching a cold smile, relieved him of it then extended the finely gloved hand as well as its content towards me.

   I gazed at it silently, recognizing the seal. While I had not professed all too extensively and my expertise could be argued, my Oxford education as well as the fact that, by birth right, I did pertain to the aristocracy, had made of a sought legal representative. I had had the chance of representing men who had, upon as much as the day of their verdict or even execution received such letters, subsequent to their sudden pardon. "Summons?"     

   I nonetheless took the envelope. It was hardly the done thing to keep the man with his hand held out as if a persistent beggar. 

   Sir Kilsby-Haynes – whom I noticed to have the most exquisite green eyes I had ever come across- picked up a cigarette, lighting it with ease. "An invitation, Hellsing."

   And to this one I appreciated at least the initiative of respecting my initial desires. 

 I was immediately aware of two facts: one, that whatever the motivation behind such an interesting move, a refusal was unacceptable. Where none of the three had expressed direct hostility, they emanated the sort of authority that could arrange for bullets to reach the foreheads of the insecure or uncooperative. I didn't take to them in the least, and perhaps it was unwise of me to let as much become evident, as they had noticed my discomfort and were now on far more attentive towards my every word.  

  Secondly, there was the matter of the summons themselves and the fact that why in blazes one as obscure on a grander scale as myself should have earned Royal attention.

   I decided to invest in the lesser, more trivial details. "To when is it addressed?"

   "The twenty-fifth." A week from now. Good. This gave me good time to better asses the situation and estimate the possible implications to this unusual behavior. 

  I strained to sound all cool and composed and unwavering. "There is something of which I should be informed."

  There was a slight hesitation before the "answer" itself came from Sir Huyxley's dry lips. "Should there be?"

  Smoke had begun to rise a second time; Sir Trevelian gave a small, tactful cough as if to say: "my bad, old boy". But I wasn't as mindful towards the smoke as Cadwell should have had it appear. And I was certainly not as in awe of Sir Huyxley's emphasized hostility or his ambiguity as to require consolation.

   "The King is preoccupied with the welfare of the Hellsing line," said Kilsby-Haynes slyly, "and he should only wish to ensure that.,. all goes well. Now that your esteemed Father has left us, and no notable arrangements have been made to suggest to otherwise, you are the rightful Hellsing heir."

   "I am acquainted with the formalities."

   "Yes, well, of course you are." Sir Trevelian dismissed my argument with a wave, then smiled, "Many congratulations on your recent success, Christopher. We never quite believed you'd pull old Henry through."

   Sir Henry Boylen's case had quickly gone from Hyde Park's newest gossip to editorial glory: in a matter of two weeks since his arrest, the entirety of Lodon was sending its regards, as well as insuring us what a pity and absurdity it was that such fine men of the old gentry, as Sir Boylen, could be charged with what could only be unfounded accusations of fraud. This was particularly unpleasant for me, as, no more than five hours after Sir Boylen's spectacular pardon in front of the High Court, I had received both word and evidence of my client's dubious nature. This again did not humor me, as I made a habit of only taking on the few cases that I was certain that through my doing, justice could prevail.

     I looked away. "Thank you."

   "Yes, such a disastrous ordeal, wasn't it? Completely against all etiquette – why, the duke of Hamilton's in-law, just imagine, almost like cornering the King's kin themselves. What a mess, and ever so not the done thing," said Sir Huyxley. "His Majesty does so disapprove of all those who fail to remember they serve a purpose, and a liege, and should keep their noses out of anything else-  don't you, Sir Hellsing?"

   I quickly realized this particular discussion was heading downhill, and had as much to do with Sir Boleyn as Robert's coming here had with his love for the countryside. However, I hadn't the time to answer; he cut me off.

   "And, of course, heavens! Just think of all the wrong people and the wrong influences one could encounter these days! They forget all about loyalty, and honor, and tradition – and he to whom they owe respect.  
And I do wonder, is it a trait among the younger generations?" He sounded puzzled, though not alarmed.

  What was he blabbering about? This was probably a poorly-hidden innuendo at that I oughtn't forget my place and my loyalties; but, in all honesty, whenever had I done such a thing, and why would the very King, or even his men, care?

  "No. Certainly not." I looked him in the eye, striving not to show my faint amusement. Which was, understandably, of a curious nature: amusement caused by irony, irony caused by the meaningless façade everything carried, and façade generated by events beyond both my control and understanding.

   Beyond my control and understanding. The journey. Robert. Hades, I would be late beyond belief.

   I did my best to resume the bizarre interview by an attempt at a farewell and seeing myself out.  

   "Sirs, I pray that you should excuse me. A few matters have been brought to my attention, and it would seem my presence is urgently required in London. Of course, you understand…"- and propriety did sentence them to understanding, whether truthful or not- "perhaps our estate manager, Mister John Eliott, should see to your accommodation, should you decide to spend the eve here?"

  They were uncertain on what to do or say, but also unwilling to risk saying more than the direct orders surrounding their assignment permitted them. Sir Kilsby-Haynes, ever the enterprising one, watched the light die down at the end of his cigar, as he crushed it to ashtray. Sir Trevelian was already on his feet, and as for Sir Huyxley, well, his glances hadn't parted with me for one second ever since I had entered. Such a strange man, this was.   

 I tucked the "invitation" safely in my vest's inner pocket.  "Good evening to you, then, sirs. And again, your pardon."

   "Sir Hellsing..." I stopped in my place., turning to be in the full of Sir Huyxley's meditative glance. "A word of advice. Your father committed a few grave errors. Do your best not to see to their repetition, or the consequences may exceed your normal view on severity." 

  With a few meaningless pleasantries, I excused myself, walking out as fast as my feet and etiquette would permit me to do so. It was only behind the closed doors of my now empty study that I noticed my hands were irrevocably shaking. I couldn't tell why. I couldn't understand why. I mentally knew there was absolutely no reason for the cold shadow over my heart and mind.

   But I wouldn't leave the study until I could hear Cadwell's wishes of Godspeed and all the best, before seeing the hellish trio out. 

   I was not surprised upon descending the stairs to the main corridor, to find that Robert had already finished his letter and had endeavored in other sorts of worldly preoccupations. What _did _surprise me, however, was the fact that these preoccupations were, mayhap, just a trifle _too _worldly.

   He was handling a pistol with wondrous detachment.

   Cadwell was with him, with a shiny little box in his hands that contained what I later recognized as ammunition. It was not often, perhaps, that I let myself evaluate Cadwell's character or his abilities; but he appeared rather the multitalented sort. The clean, elegant moves by which he inserted the new set of bullets spoke of both a secure and skilled hand. Neither traits to be fathomed at a man his age, as I presumed him well in his fifties. His build was, however, entirely British, and so he'd aged well and somehow maintained a gentlemanly appearance. These was another factor that had provided reasons for my awe, when Robert had first seen to the introductions: Cadwell's stance and his very looks held something of the aristocracy. He was neither bulky, nor skeletal, and he hadn't favored the horrible Welsh pride of beards. His hair had gone a neat shade of white, and his eyes were the powerful blue of the Germanics. Even now I attempted to cling to these physical details, to the flesh and bone and perhaps so decipher of what the majestic air behind this man consisted. 

   I resumed my thoughts and went a few more steps down. They both glanced at me as I came, smiling evenly at my accusing silence. They had probably imagined that, especially coming from a professional environment that encouraged their usage – lawyers did have a number of "motley" acquaintances, after all- I would not approve of its presence. 

   "This is London. And above all else, this is London at night," Robert said simply, practicing a few target practice poses in what he described as an attempt to "get the feel" of the gun. He didn't shoot anything, thankfully: Cook appeared willing to throw a fit at no more than the sight of it, as it was. The fact that he had aimed the thing to her very head as she had come in to ask for our preferences for the following day's meal was a possible explanation as to why, since that day on, Robert's meals were either too hot, too cold or too salty, and why all his kitchen orders were seen to with a distinct delays.  

   Between moans and sniffs and the sporadic "Oh, the devil! Oh, the beast! Oh, my heart, my heart –it's pumping out from the fear, sir!", we managed to inform her that we weren't intending to dine at the manor for the day to come. Robert's remark that a few tarts would do him well on the road was somehow lost amidst sobs.

   Our plans were as followed: Robert's man Cadwell had offered to drive us to the station, and then we would take the latest train to London. We'd be there by eleven, but as no one was to receive us, there was no need to concern ourselves with such trifling details. I didn't know whereon we would go, but…

   "Shall we?" I folded the letter in my hands neatly. Robert was standing in the door, dressed up accordingly and in tune with the weather. He was wearing a shiny new coat the color of old gold, which would protect him from the cold that had been predicted in the region for the day to come. London wouldn't be spared, I knew, and this stimulated me to search for more appropriate clothing. 

   They followed me up to my dormitory: pale and poorly light and almost untouched, it had initially belonged to Papa and been assigned to me upon arrival due to my condition as new master of the house. I had not rebelled against this unwise and almost heretic decision the circumstances had not allowed for my disapproval towards the traditional ways. Besides, the dead, delivered by his associates from the medical committees, had needed to be watched, as said in the religious doctrine of choice. I'd spent my nights in the family crypt, near Papa's veiled body, wondering how on earth a man with presumably a heart of gold could end because of it. Hearts of gold couldn't suffer coronaries. But his had. Then I would retire in the study during the days, with several hours of rest between failed attempts at installing order at Hellsing manor.

   Therefore, it was not all that surprising that upon entering my own quarters, I was helplessly lost and appalled by the strict practicality of the room. I had never seen the master's bedroom in close, though I had wondered, and I had also had my curiosity decently satisfied by several peeks as a child. Still, the overall was mesmerizing. There was nothing – nothing- there that spoke of a person having ever inhabited the place. The furniture was cut a stern and uninviting line, and the color set consisted of various coffees and a pastel honey on the carpets, which should have given a warm feel, but failed to do so. The uncomfortable sensation of intruding, as well as the expectation of Father coming up behind me and ordering me out of his room had not dissolved even now that I possessed knowledge of their childishness. This was mine now. Mine. But with one glance one could tell that this had been, was, and would always be Abraham van Helsing's chamber, and that I was invading a private place and private setting. Had I not be certain of my resolve before, it struck me clearly that keeping away from the master bedroom had been a wise, considerate decision. I made a mental note to have my possessions moved to other quarters – preferably my old ones – upon return.

   My cases had been abandoned in a corner by the maidservants, who'd seen them in, and who'd also provided me with a change of shirt upon demand. I made to open one, but then noticed that someone had already cared for that, as well. The armoire in the corner – Papa's armoire- shadowed down on me like an open threat, and I stood there, in the middle of the room, a bit dumfounded and utterly confused...

  A matter which, apparently, did not go unnoticed. Cadwell, father of two sons and therefore accurately acquainted with all the troubles of violated male territory, recognized my uncertainty and stepped in. He laughed and said quickly, "May I be of service, sir?"

   I shook my head. Of course not. This – this was Papa's room, and that was Papa's armoire, but I was faced to the distinct knowledge of those being my clothes neatly arranged in the armoire. My behavior was childish and utterly sentimental. Hardly something Robert would have done, for instance, or that Father would have appreciated. But… installing in his place did feel as if banishing him, every sign, every part, every memory of him. Which I didn't mean to do. I didn't mean to replace him.

   Oh, Hades. Perhaps the funeral had made me a touch distressed. But carrying on like this would only confirm Robert's suspicions, which would result in a possible delay of the trip. And this was unacceptable. So I dismissed Cadwell's offer and slid the two doors to the armoire, revealing indeed my clothing and my possessions. A number of grey or dark coats was available – the main advantage of a lawyer's occupation was that one was guaranteed to own a selection of attires suitable for funerals and weddings- and I glanced over them briefly. Hmm…one, two, oh, the one from Surrey, that one was wool, and-

   My hands froze over a familiar lump of velvet, set tidily as the last layer with the sort of geometric precision that suggested that all the staff at the Hellsing manor might have endured additional courses in mathematical problems prior to their employment: the coat had been arranged at the precise angle to cut down on the space utilized but also that such avarice not lead to the unwanted consequence of the doors being unable to open.

   Though this was hardly what captured my attention. The immaculate clothing itself did, particularly its jovial color: the sort of red whose intensity reminded one of rose petals dipped in wine and then some. A powerful, eye-catching red cloak. Father's red cloak.

   For a moment, I was again webbed in the past, and the Christopher of the present was no more than a dignified stranger. I, myself, my true self was the toddler endlessly fascinated by his Papa in the day the cloak had first been seen, so long ago.

  _ He'd brought it from Harrow, where he'd discarded my elder brother to a new academy. The cloak enslaved one's senses to adoration and nothing more. It was shocking, and spoke of a complete lack obeisance and of opulence in a time when discretion was not only advised but dictated. _

_   "Christopher." Papa's tone was rich and grave and unsettling. And as all precocious children who understand so little of the books they are read by their nana's, all I could think of was that the villain of that Dumas tale, the cardinal with the unpronounceable name – yes, he should have had such a violently impressive cloak, and he too would whisper my name with such power and-      _

   Cadwell's voice awoke me from my reverie. "Sir?"  

   "I shall have this cloak," the stranger informed Cadwell firmly, but those that rested on the thick fabric were my hands, and mine alone. Robert measured it appreciatively.

    "This was uncle's, wasn't it?" He looked down to the floor for a long moment, then straight to me. "Wasn't it?"

    My throat was suddenly dry. I – I wouldn't- I _couldn't _answer.

   "Please see to that the letter to Gwendolyn be sent," I suggested.  And then I got a stronger grip on the cloak and walked out.

   My health had been suspiciously benign the day before, only to betray me completely in a time when it would have been much more appreciated. As a result, I was still subtly wiping little splotches from the corner of my mouth, blood spilt and unwanted, and what Cadwell quickly referred to as an ill omen where the journey be considered. Of course, Cadwell, as still under the service of his master, had been playing his part well, and offering no moral support in the least. I barely had him keep his silence on the matter, more than certain that Robert would never agree to the voyage where he fully in knowledge of the circumstances. He accepted once I gave my word to ensure that Robert be at peace. Such a good, loyal man, Cadwell was. Robert ought to have been content with his efforts – that is, when he was not busily clutching the silverware, adopting his hostile, Top Man, Oxford Shark and Man of Numbers Extraordinaire attitude. To his credit, I was inhibited by his aggressive stance. The way he held that spoon from his place, opposing me at one of the grander tables of the last train's dining compartment- well, he looked positively intimidating.

     "Red has a talent for shadowing certain stains," I left slip, much to my immediate regret; Robert – witty and cautious Robert – was as always paying my every word attention and would not suffer an excuse without steering it to the realm of the dramatic. I couldn't say why I was bothering with an explanation, as he had yet to ask anything of me. I still couldn't help but feel, however, that the cape scene earlier on had given him reason to favor unbecoming speculations; and of course I couldn't allow it of him.

  He folded his napkin, and then proceeded to attack a gigantic portion he'd been served of the day's special steak.

  I was not one for extravagance – but it was often one's condition that made extravagance of even the average and moderate. And so it was that Robert could only look upon my few meals and little appetite with distaste and mayhap concern. I normally kept to a meal a day, if even that entirely, though I had explained to him that my lack of appetite was only an insignificant consequence of the action of my medication. He couldn't comprehend why I looked upon the richly adorned plates in front of me with reluctance, sometimes even apathy. These were extravagances to me, since I couldn't savor it. What was the point in wasting good food and good wine on me, when there were so many who out there – even here, with us, in this very wagon- who could better appreciate it?

  But Robert lacked the energy for philosophical debates or allusions, or truth, today, this much I could see. Poor Robert – I must have been the perfect disappointment to him, and I hated it about as much as I hated myself for causing him all the trouble. No, better lull his senses, and his impulses. Better serve him a lie that he could bring himself to believe, until the time shall come and he shall be prepared for the horrid truth of it. But not now. I could not grieve me so now, when he was so drained.   

 Our glances both stopped on the faint reddish glitter of expensive wine, pertaining to the sort of bottle that would have made for many a vineyard's pride and a normal chap's monthly pay.

   I laughed, lightly. "Robert, you're well aware how ghastly I am with wine and wine glasses. I do spill them far more than occasionally, and I have made an inopportune habit of having the coat as the traditional victim."

   "Yes. Certainly.  How foolish of me to even inquire. It's only natural that Uncle should have had a stash of clothing there. His house, after all."

  "In all actuality, it was the only one there. Papa hadn't a habit of staying too long nor too often." I took a bite of the vegetable soufflé, grateful that at least the siding could be counted on to not have any meat. Meat would have been unbearable now, as I had far too little appetite to consume it, but also no wish to irritate Robert who was vaguely preoccupied by my nutrition. "He settled in Switzerland two years before I left the place as well. He did come over occasionally, but more often he would conduct his affairs from outside the borders. When the travels began, I – and the house as well- saw little of him, aside for those times of urgency when he made a heroic appearance or wrote direct instructions."

   We both pretended that we weren't recalling the disaster with Uncle Thomas and his offer to take me in, but the following moments of uncomfortable silence showed just to what our thoughts were directed.

    Robert changed the subject with uncharacteristic subtlety – either that, or the situation had truly grown in such a desperate need for a pretext, that all those provided would be immediately deemed valid. "But weren't you lonely?"

  "No." I shrugged. "Nana was there, and I have never been one for too much company, and-"

  He gave me a skeptical look. "He abandoned you."

  "He was grieving, Robert. My brother's death…it marked all of us." This was the least that could be said of a demise that had stormed our family, leaving nothing but destruction and grief in the place of everything that had been in its path. Papa had shed his tears all over Europe. Mama had wept her own in an asylum that she had only left when under the eternal protection of her mahogany coffin. We always had that. Mahogany. Papa had died and I had issued a request for mahogany, and they had asked whether I meant to place a command for the family crest on the side as well. Mahogany and family crest. The Hellsing specialty. 

   Unperturbed by such cynical thoughts and likely still pondering the family drama, Robert heaved a sigh – though not the most unexpected question with it:

   "How _did_ Arthur die, Kester?"

   "Arthur…" I said quietly, sensing the weariness that was building in me. Two unimaginable things had just taken place, both of which had been decreed unpardonable in my early youth. One was uttering the name of my brother, whom I had learned to not as much as think of under his rightful God given appellative. Arthur. A simple name of legend, the name of the hero that he was to never become. Secondly, he had also brought up the matter of my sibling's demise, which was again something that would have made a mess of Papa's temper, and that therefore had not to be remarked upon, if only to save him the trouble. I didn't know which to condemn first. But then, Robert was not at fault, as he could not have known. No, he can't have known. And, well, Papa was no longer, so no true sin had been committed.

  "Arthur." I repeated, hoping that saying the name would evoke worthier memories of this lovely creature that the angels had chosen to play with. But it didn't. The curse had not lifted, and the curse still burned. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur…My hands brushed over my temples, massaging them softly in unconscious motion. Something was there: knowledge that I could feel burrowed too deep in the levels of my mind, teasing me, almost.  I had been so young and so careless at the time, but there was something I remembered, perhaps if I concentrated a bit, I-

   "Shhhh…" I breathed in loudly as an unfamiliar twinge of pain settled in, as if something was perforating every nervous tissue in my head and then some – Arthur –  Papa and the red cloak- I …  For a moment, all sound faded with the exception of the delicate pulse I could only associate with the beat of my heart, or that of my temples. The pain was there, alive and strong, and intense.

   "Kester." Robert. Robert was speaking. I could see him move very, very slowly, and I could read the word on his lips, but I could barely hear it. "Kester." Something cold brushed my lips. It was Robert's doing, as he kept a glass of wine at my mouth.

   I thought it the first time in known history that sentience would be returned by alcohol. It was. I was immediately greeted by Robert's looks of concern, to which I only replied with a slight nod.      

   "You shall have to forgive me. I can't remember the details, though I expect it was some sort of unclassified disease," I said in an end, and then felt forced to motivate my unbecoming ignorance. "It upset Papa greatly that he should have to discuss it. "

    Robert's eyes moved to the glass in my slightly shacking hand. "Never you mind. Are you all right?"

   I smiled faintly and then gave my supper a tired look.

    "Shall we be on our way?"

 I should have liked to retreat in our compartment and perhaps catch an hour of rest before arrival. He obliged, and so I was ridded of the troubles of desert.

  When sleep failed to court me, as to my original hopes, I resumed to devoting my time to a better comprehension of Papa's reports. What I had expressed at the manor upon their immediate lecture had been horror and, above all else, a horror that had eliminated all possibilities of apprehension in concern to the documents at hand. I hadn't memorized a thing, and I believed that, at this point, all information on the given situation would be of vital importance.

   As a first observation, the reports, unlike the letter expressing his final wishes, had indeed been written by Papa and Papa alone – if not for the hand writing, then there was also the evidence of his unmistakable style, neat yet laconic. He had elaborated a list of characteristics and their subcategories, with explicit data and examples for the both. His account tangled both the vampiric traits and how they were expressed by the particular vampire to enjoy his attentions.

   As Robert dozed off a bit, after several biting remarks on how ungracious both Cook and myself had been to deny him a dessert, I launched in a more accurate read. And, this time, I took it from the beginning, to the very end, taking the time to put down a small summary of own making, with quotes and notes based on the original.

   In the end – and this was a version I presented to an uninterested Robert who dismissed me under the pretext of the lack of sugar having blinded him-  to document – the results were satisfactory:

_    The vampire is a creature damned by most known religious doctrines, though no detailed or precise knowledge concerning the exact time or mean of their creation has been presented. _

_   Their abilities are surprisingly ambivalent: their lust for blood, while satiating their hunger and regenerating as well as, at times, enforcing their powers, may also be their downfall. They may come to find the thirst uncontrollable, which shall weaken their composure and create their vulnerability. By nature, the vampire is impulsive, unable to contain its emotions, its desires. It reacts on basic level of primates; however, while their reasoning does follow the priorities of defense and nutrition, they are not avoid of logic. In fact, they are particularly gifted in dissimulation, and are often aided in this psychological talent by their capacity of metamorphosis. (see account of subject's transformation to mist upon Papa's initial attempt to seal him). They are possessive and shall not renounce what they feel is their belonging. Another vampire wishing to intrude upon their territory shall be massacred without any reluctance. Those who wish to interfere with the vampire's pets or chosen playthings shall suffer a fate worse than death._

_    The regeneration ability mentioned above appears frequently within Papa's reports: it was more than at hand after the incidents of the cutting of his limbs, draining of blood (starvation, though the term is used improperly – apparently, time spent without blood weakens them nearly to the point of extinction, but does not succeed in killing them), burning of bones and during the sealing itself. _

_  Note: must indulge in more ardent research on the matter of the sealing itself, as it is only mentioned here and am uncertain of what it entails: from the offered information, it ties the vampire to the human entity, a tie both made and maintained by blood and that introduces the implied servitude._

I had then continued on with remarking the methods by which the vampires, the traditional vampires, that is, could indeed be destroyed. My hand had been shaking –and with it, the pen- in realizing that all these methods had been tested on Papa's subject, before they'd drawn the conclusion that the sealing was the only mean by which to keep him in control.

  Control. In control. Control over him, or death. Oh my God.

  I threw the papers aside, and heroically tried not to think of it, any of it.

  I couldn't tell when I managed to go to sleep. But nonetheless, the darkness took me.

  Much to own satisfaction, nightmares had always avoided me. Dreams per whole were a rare occurrence, and so I normally indulged in hours of fully reviving sleep. Obviously, however, the day's events had overwhelmed me enough so to ensure not only a terrible migraine upon wakening, but also a curious display of my subconscious' troubles: suspiciously familiar scenes that my memory could not place.

_   "Silly baby," Arthur was saying, tall and gracious and sophisticated, as all boys would appear to their decade younger siblings. He was imposing for his fifteen years, but so very kind – a quality I kept admiring with every visit to the nursery, my nursery; he came often and always brought gifts; he also never took any of my toys and hadn't an interest in robbing me of nana, so I liked him._

_   He was standing over my own bed. I no longer slept in the nursery – I was an adult, now, all grown up and five years old and not afraid (or not overly so) of the dark, but I'd been assigned that bed again as Papa had company, and the "company" preferred the sort of view to the woods that only my room could provide._

_   It didn't matter that I'd had to move. I had my balloon with me, the big red one that nana had given me when Mama and Papa and Arthur had gone away to greet "company" at the station and I'd been left alone and I'd been miserable. I liked the balloon. It bounced when I gave it just the slightest push, and I laughed at the pretty colors it sported when the moon beams came over it, through the open window. _

_  Pretty colors. White. Pink._

_  "Silly baby," Arthur said again. Arms folded, he was leaning to the door, looking devilishly handsome as he smiled. He was a hero, I had long decided; if not for own merits, the rank would still have been granted to him by Greek mythology decree – nana had read me Vergilius, and while some matters escaped me (such as how, for instance, came babies simply as the hero and heroine embraced?) the fact that Achilles had been Themis' son, the son of deity proved my point. Heroes were the offspring of gods, and what was Papa but a god in his own right? So of course Arthur was a hero because of that._

_   But Arthur was also beautiful. I loved Arthur for his golden hair, and his blue-blue eyes and muscular build just as I loved him for not taking my toys away or nana. _

_   Another bounce. White. Pink. Orange._

_   I laughed again. Arthur's sophisticated tastes were not as easily satisfied, and so he turned to the window, keeping it in a long silent watch. Then abruptly, he said to me, "Come with me."_

_   I bounced my balloon again. _

_  White. Orange. Pink. Red._

_  Red on the balloon as it landed._

_  Red on the looking glass as if played with the light._

_  Red on-_

_  I shook my head. It was dark, and nana had said I wasn't to leave my bed. So I pursed my lips tightly and shook my head again. _

_   "Don't you want to have a little fun?" Arthur persisted, and while I wouldn't answer, neither did I say anything when he picked me up from the bed and took me in his arms, carrying me out of the nursery and into the corridor. I waved bye-bye to my balloon as it fell gracelessly to the floor, and I looked up and around quietly._

_  Arthur was keeping me in perhaps too tight a grasp, but I didn't mind. I liked to be carried around, and I liked Arthur. Two things that made for a lovely combination._

_   But I didn't like grandsire. And grandsire – "company"- was waiting in the dark corridor. And as  he and Arthur exchanged a glance, I caught sight of the twisted, well-known key in his hands, and I shuddered. I asked of Arthur to let me down, and writhed, but he wouldn't. We weren't allowed **there**. Only bad things came from **there**. We weren't to go there, no, no, and especially not during the night, no- I shook in Arthur's arms, but he paid me no notice. I wanted my bed. I wanted my balloon._

_   I wanted it all to be over.  _

  My heart was pounding when conscience returned to me and when, to paraphrase Robert, dreamland was again no more than a getaway at the end of a claret bottle.  

  "We're a bit over an hour to London," said Robert, hastily. I noticed the pink gin glass in his hand, and he met my look of puzzle with a shrug. "Got bored."

  He came to his feet. "Good thing you came to your senses, too – you were all mumbling and muttering in your sleep. Thought I'd have to ring for the House of Assumption and their welcome party!" We shared a laugh, and then he said, "I should like a bit of pie, in all truth."

  I nodded. "You shan't mind if I rest a bit while you have you randomly wake up half of the train's staff to produce you a low quality desert you could have gone without, do you?"

 "Not in the least. But don't you dare ask me for a spoonful, as I'll be bringing none back for your ungrateful sort!"

  The door closed behind with a small thud that complimented both his strength – train compartments always had the most troublesome doors- and his determination to disregard all known protocol without the slightest sign of remorse.

  He'd left his glass behind, and this intrigued me further. I could see he hadn't touched it in the least.

  I closed my eyes, willing sleep. Somehow, I still felt invariably tired. The entire ordeal had likely got to me, and there was also the intolerable burn in my neck that usually preceded another fit, and more coughing, and more blood.

  A soft creek announced Robert's return, and I casually prepared myself to inquire on the entire gin glass mystery. "Decided against that pie?"

  "Do forgive me," came the answer; but it wasn't Robert. The owner of this incredible voice had likely spent his years in a great variety of milieus, as his accent varied between strong cockney, then a very unusual stressing of his vowels, and – my eyes snapped open.

  An accent I couldn't place. The voice. This voice. I knew it. I quickly recalled the phone call, and my disastrous mean of putting an end to it.

  "I would never have dreamt of intruding, " the man explained. "But, then, we did have such a messy start, didn't we? And I couldn't find you, nor had I heard word  of you – and it's quite horrid to be asked to do this on your own- especially as I'm the only one they've got around. They're sending more important figures up, naturally – why, I say, even Father Caeta might come up- but they have to come from Italy, you see, and so it might take a while – and how incredibly real you look, Mister Hellsing, why, I always thought you'd be this frail old man with not a care in the world, and here you are, so dashing, really, and of course this is all so thrilling!"

  I was immediately overwhelmed by both his audacity, and his immense joie de vivre. He can't have been more than my age – and I could see, by the pattern followed by his dark clothing, that he'd been ordained. I aimlessly tried to place his heritage on account of his physical aspect, but this proved a futile task indeed. His hair hung in little auburn curls, and his eyes danced in a light brown. A generous mouth revealed all teeth quite in place, and to this added an impeccable skin (the sort that would have made for most women's object of envy) and an average stature, he could well have been anywhere from the New World to the Philippines and then Mother England.

 But this wasn't necessarily what bothered me – his entire attitude was alarmingly lively. He seemed to emanate all the life and happiness of an order supposedly devoted to modesty. I suddenly felt very, very old.

  "I'm Tomaso – well, Thomas, really- Fiorelli," he beamed, and all I could think of was, oh, indeed, another Thomas to ruin my day, how rich.

  Another matter, however, became clearer to me. Where was the dark hair? Where was the aquiline nose? How was it the room did not shrink when he walked in, at the sight of his Roman majesty?

  But, more importantly, where was the bloody Italian accent?

 He seemed to notice my curiosity, or plain felt like storytelling. "Well, I've never been here, on this side of England, even though I spend half the year here, half home, but, really, London's more where I personally linger, and isn't the city marvelous, by the way?"

  I couldn't tell. It took me a bit, between his ramblings, to realize he'd actually asked me anything.

 "But then, of course, living there, it really wouldn't seem too much for you, but I'm from Padua, myself, and while it's lovely there too, it's rather nothing when compared to this!"

  "Brother Fiorelli…"

  "Oh, beg pardon, you probably want to know just what I'm doing here? Do excuse me for the time, by the way, but you've so rarely been alone, and I needed to get a word with you, and I didn't need company. And, well, you understand, you're a lawyer, lawyers know certain inconveniences shall always be met when the call of one's profession intervenes!"  And then, just as easily as he had ranted the entire of his uninteresting tale, he threw me the most amazing news. "I'm from Vatican, well, Iscariot, but that's really almost the same thing, and I'm here to help you with the vampire crisis."

 The door slammed open. "Kester, you won't believe this, but they positively refuse to serve until seven, and I so was intent on my pie, so I went and woke the chief myself. And, oh, just look what I have here for you, you ungrateful bastard- " Robert stopped dead in his track, thin light pouring over the incredibly generous piece of pie on the plate he was holding almost ceremoniously. Fiorelli gave him a small nod of greeting, while I casually moved more towards the window, admiring an inexistent view.

 "Robert," I said in an end, when the matter at hand could really no longer be delayed without the gesture in itself reeking discourtesy. "You had better have a seat."

  Briefing Robert seemed to demand the passing of an entire age on its own – the age of the impatient, perhaps?- but I stoically endured it all, from my uncomfortable little seat. Naturally, his first question was…

  "So whom did you say you're representing, again?"

  "Iscariot." Fiorelli glanced to us, and I nodded, not a little amused. Such a fetching name, truly. Judas the Iscariot, often associated with vampire myths as well as those of other undead, claimed to fear silver due to the nature of the price asked to betray his betray his master: ten coins of silver for the Messiah. 

  An unruly tale, and not one to be contested or adopted with as much devotement. How and why, given the definite accusation written between fine lines, the Vatican had accepted such label was a riddle in itself, and one I couldn't help but find humorous. But one of us had had his fill of the theological dogma.   

  "Iscariot?" Echoed Robert confusedly, and Fiorelli chuckled, gaining himself the rare privilege of one of my cousin's looks of full contempt. I could only find blame for this little lacuna in Robert's disclosed intellectual exhaustion that had resulted after one too many straining years of an Oxford education. I myself had experienced something of the sort for a few months after earning my degree – the mere sight of a book had become appalling. But this curious disposition had not been long lived, for reasons that made of me a learned man of circumstance: in time, books grew company. Perhaps not the most jovial, nor the most affectionate. But company, still, and I had had my share of moments when company had been more than lacking.

   The discrete feel of laughter in the air reminded me of the one I would find, now, and how company would always suffice hereon. I briefed Robert on the matter, and he was more than delighted:  

  "Such a remarkable confession!" He laughed as I finished my account, with all the life of the man in the position and power to ridicule his lesser. Fiorelli, to his merit, maintained a scrupulously unreadable expression, as if guessing just how little his overly happy nature did to impress my tired, irritable and unfed cousin. On my part, I simply shook my head. But Robert wasn't easing things in the least, "Why, you're flaunting the very fact that vampirism was proclaimed by _your_ Lord Christ and _your _religion!"

  Fiorelli flushed, then replied. "It's a touch more complicated, but, yes. Well, it's all mentioned in Matthew's book, and how odious it is to have to study that in the first year, and-" Robert's menacing expression returnd him to the topic at hand. "It's part of why Abraham Hellsing chose us to aid him in his… troubled days." This term in reference to the time Papa had likely wasted in inventing new means of tormenting him was ghastly yet too gentle.

 "You shall have to forgive me, but there's something I can't well bring myself to understand." I silently reached for Robert's abandoned gin glass, took a sip. "No offense intended, naturally – but why would Papa go to such great lengths to reach the Vatican?"

"Yes, why would Uncle bother himself as much when he and the Archbishop seemed the best of friends? What did the Vatican do to raise his interest?"

"It's not so much about what the Vatican did…rather, about what the monarchy failed to do." Fiorelli, for all his initial inconsistency, had miraculously recovered from his absurd fit of happiness, and was now making himself most useful. How much this had to do with Robert's patting of the discreetly exhibited pat of his pistol, as well as the sudden grin on his face, I couldn't say. "The King did not support your father's attempt to make use of vampires."

 "It's come to my understanding that it's really all he could do under the circumstances. He couldn't kill him, and it was more a problem of method than intention."

 Robert gave off a wry laugh. "Tell that to the good ol' Royal hound. The King felt that Uncle was going against his wishes?"

 "Still does. Reckon it's understandable, to an extent. There seemed to be only one of them at the time, and that's the one Abraham and the Archbishop were keeping in such a loose leash. And then he had that row with the Canterbury officials…"

  I looked from Fiorelli to Robert, yet saw no compassion in either's eyes. Fiorelli was thrilled by, well, everything. Robert was astonished. My voice was a series of chokes when I next spoke, " So he believes the Archbishop and my father kept – that the Archbishop and myself are keeping..."

  "Him as a weapon against the Monarchy."

 Fiorelli shrugged, uncomfortably. "This is the point when Abraham Hellsing sought aid outside the borders. He presented the Vatican with an offer that we couldn't refuse. He – and you now – are under our protection. So is, um, the fanged one." I somehow felt the urge of bursting into laughter at the thought of _Fiorelli_ protecting anyone, even himself. Better without, I decided, and then smiled. The fanged one. Oh my.

  "We would have contacted you earlier on. But no one quite expected your dear father to go the way that he did – hadn't told a soul he suffered from heart deficiencies- and the greatest needed to be kept, and, well, we couldn't know whether… " He stopped, looked away.

   The words were lost between us. They couldn't know whether I'd outlive my father.

  "So what now?"

 "They know where he is kept, as do you. They can't have reached him. Only a Hellsing can. Don't know why, they never told me." Another shrug. Of course, this probably had quite a lot to do with the initial comment he'd made within the frames of our bizarre introduction – he was only here momentarily, as he was the closest thing the Vatican could spare to reach me, before their other members managed to do so. "Still, they'll likely be there. I shan't lie to you. If you as much as near the perimeter, they'll decree it as treason on your part for incurring the favors of a potential weapon."

  Silence.

  Robert found his words with an enraging calm that I couldn't echo for the time being. "Well, such I shall be unbearably prosaic and speak the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth – isn't this how it goes, Kester?" Trying to collect my shattered thoughts, I nodded. "What I believe the chap's trying to tell us, old boy, is that if we as much as get off this train and go to that backwater alley, we'll get picked on and then up, and possibly arrested."

  Again I nodded, absently, lost in a sea of arbitrary thoughts and an increasing frustration. How quaint. The Monarchy wanted us down for trying to help it out, but it wouldn't bother with explaining its reasons, or telling us this fetching tale. They can't have bothered with a note of, don't bring the vampire back, will you? But they'd gladly lock us up – and this was probably why the King wanted to see me, didn't he? To threaten me into submission? But what did he hope to accomplish with that, when he'd had sufficient proof that my Papa's loyalties lay with his studies, first, and when, above all else, I was and would always be my Father's son?

   Unsurprisingly, Sir Huyxley's parting words came to mind.

   _Your father committed a few grave errors. Do your best not to see to their repetition, or the consequences may exceed your normal view on severity._

So many words to describe that we were presently in ever the muddle.

** Author's horribly long note:** …and we're back. So sorry on the delay, really. My thanks to all those who've reviewed or e-mailed or whatnot. Believe it or not, I do appreciate it terribly. My apologies on the poor quality of this present chapter – it's what I (for one) call a fill-up piece. A plot fill-up piece, that is, as, while all the scenes are irrevocably necessary for the plot to come, there's also little to none tangible action. Well, pity for that.

   Do have a bit of patience up to the next chapter for any Alucard interaction, if you will.

  (and to all those who were going to complain on Fiorelli's horribleness, and how he'd never have been made a priest – have a bit of trust. Not too much, but just a bit. Fiorelli's…amusing, in his own little way, and there's a tale and a reason to his constant sugar rush, really.)

   Well, that will be that. In good badfic spirit: Kester wishes you all the best, Robert advises against pie at late hours, and, um,  Alucard mainly encourages severe fangirling. That is all. (oh! And whomever gets the little word play with a Hellsing being named Hadrian gets a bit of fangirling of his/her own).


	3. Interlude

**Title:** Two Worlds Apart

**Rating:** PG-13, might go up to R

**Author's notes at the end**

  _Margery Cairne _

_  Early 1900s_

  "Hellsing _estate_? Oh, such thrill!" Lance said delightedly, even though I could tell perfectly well that he was already loathing the very thought of it. For a moment I feared the mistress Gwendolyn Hellsing would comment on this obvious lack of sincerity, but she only smiled tiredly. Exhaustion made Madam incapable of accepting anything but a half truth or perfect lie that would sooth her vanity and keep at bay the guilt.

  She truly does feel guilty, I imagine, and a trifle reluctant to leave Scotland as well – moving about is hardly exciting or a novelty for her, or for myself, ever since I have come in her service. But it's most unhealthy for the child, and, as his governess and entrusted with his development, both academic and otherwise, I have always insisted that Lance has only to suffer from such a constant change of environment. But I hardly am given a chance to speak my mind, as of late, and all council on my part has recently only been greeted by the same studiedly neutral nods, or condescending glances. A most unprofessional attitude, in my most humble opinion, and I do feel that Master Robert carries the entire fault. If not for his continuous and increasing absences, perhaps his father, Master Thomas Hellsing, would not have to make such often calls, and perhaps – also- the Madam would not as easily retire to her chambers, forsaking the poor child on the hands of that man.

  It was hardly that I did not care for the Madam, but precisely the opposite. I had always held great interest in Madam's fate, as it is gratitude alone that compensates for the lesser origins of us, the folks of the middle class; and I should always keep Madam in particularly high regard, for all the kindness she has shown me, especially at the time of my employment. But the happenings of this house were simply beyond all morals, and I found it ever more difficult to keep my silence whenever all the rules were bent.

   I straightened the folds of my dress, black, as should be, for a daughter in mourning after her dear father. I had been most honored when, in the first week after father's death, Madam had donned the black cloth as well, in what she named loyalty towards one most dear to her. Madam had never forgotten the less noble milieu in which she had bloomed, and therefore saw no shame in relating to a servant's grief. I was touched then, and I was again now, in seeing she had parted with the black cloth that did her beauty no disservice, yet somehow granted her an aged air that did not suit her altogether.

   "Now, show mummy how much you love her, pet," she said, kneeing to offer her porcelain-like cheek to be kissed. Another habit I did not condone, but that I found myself tolerating because, as Madam would often put it, all psychological books said that children who were in any way neglected would carry the trauma to their adolescence and well beyond. I had never taken to this psychological rubbish – never, and I've tutored enough children to claim it no more than gossipy filth. But Madam did so like to think herself the expert, and I hadn't the heart to cause her further trouble, not when everything was so troublesome with Master Robert, and-

  "Miss Cairne, shall you please see to his bath? I feel I should perhaps rest a mite…" She sounded drained, again, and so I nodded meekly. She retired to her chambers, crumpled letter still in hand, layers and layers of silk and lace draping on the newly cleaned floors. Madam had been unwell, the past days, weak, but today I intuited the cause of her grief, and could only hope that I could divert Lance's attention from his mother long enough for her to recover. Such an odd family, really, but it couldn't be helped.

   "Mish?" Lance crawled on all fours near me, playing with the ends of my dress, just as I brought him up and on my lap. The little angel was getting heavier by the day.

   "Don't call me that, it's Miss. You can say it, I know you can, you do it all the time with the proper Misses."

   "But I don't like them," he said, with a stubborn look that spoke clearly of his intention to never class me with the "proper Misses". He was six, true, but he was also a dear, and fairly intelligent – he could tell that the Misses who called in were no more than plotting hens, with not a decent thought in their heads.

   His hands chained to my neck as I tried to balance him in my hands and carry him towards the armoire. I took the towels out –

  "The blue one, Mish!" Yes, he liked that one. Putting him down, I began to unfold it, while Lance stoically wrestled with the buttons of his shirt. I should have to wash that, yes, he'd got it all dirty. He usually did when he played in the forest, and to my great displeasure, he had taken to this sort of thing quite often.

   "Oh, don't make a sissy of the child," Master Thomas had said, and since he was the closest thing to a paternal element in the sad equation of Lance's childhood, I was left with heeding him… so long as no great damage was done. But, then, it was only quite natural that Master Thomas should feel in this fashion, as it was him to teach the child to play with firearms. Hunting. Hah. A child of this age? Never. He is too young to learn to follow the game, though Master Thomas wouldn't listen, called it the family tradition. And now they always go to the forest whenever Master Thomas comes by, and of course I disapprove, but I shouldn't – _mustn't _– trouble Madam…

   The trousers were first to be slid off, and I sadly noted the presence of a new tear in the knees. I would have to mend them, as Madam was perfectly at place within a salon lounge, or gracious as she served tea – but she had never mastered the arts of the household, and so many times had she tortured her poor fingers, that I had invariably taken it upon myself. Oh, poor Madam, how guilty her apologies whenever she saw me sewing in her place. And she never did listen when I told her I was not in the least upset, that she more than made amends with all her gentle praises and by seating me at her table.

   Somehow, when I bundled his clothing, Lance did away with his shirt as well, then started running off (stark-naked! Oh, how indecent!) through the house, raiding madly for the bathroom. Madam and I had luckily prepared the water in advance, and so he'd have something to jump into, and preferably not bring to much harm upon himself. Oh, he was the master of inducing damage in the seemingly most impossible of circumstances.

   I managed to find him in the bathroom, facing the tub, though surprisingly, not still in. It then occurred to me that, as Madam had insisted to share the news before his bath, the water might've got a bit too cold for his taste. He was thankfully standing with his back at me, and so I could hang the towel around certain parts of his that should not have been exposed even on such small boys, and then placed a hand in the water, toying with it absently. It was still warm enough. "In you go."

  "I don't care to," he said.

  This was hardly the time for whims – water, though not scarce at the time, was best used when available, and not wasted. I let the salts slip in, lilac bubbles and rich foam raising in a matter of instants.

  "I don't want to go into the water."

  "In you go, I said, and look, I even put your favorite salts."

 Madam had acquired them during her last receiving, a gift from one of her cousins. Madam had a great many cousins, I knew, and Master Thomas snorted whenever being introduced to one. What a sick, sick man, I could tell what he was thinking – but it was decidedly untrue, they were her cousins, everyone of the region knew that Madam had been a Ripley, and that the Ripley were a numerous family, spread throughout the entirety of England.

  "Not the water," he kept murmuring, and this I found rather odd, as he had always taken to baths. Oh well, perhaps he merely meant to play. I fished in the air for his hand, finally catching hold and drawing him closer.

  "I don't want to! Not the water! Don't!" His voice was quavering, and as I turned to face him, I saw tears, tears the sort that he rarely spilled. And then something else. 

  "Oh God, Lance." I trailed a circle on his chest with one finger, and even this was done lightly. Still, he drew in a bit of air. It stung him, and I could see why. Between his undressing and the run through the corridors, I hadn't caught sight of it. But now I cursed myself for not having done so previously.

   Blood. Old blood. A long trail of blood marked what was obviously quite a deep and long cut on his chest. It hadn't festered, and the flesh was tying by itself. It needn't care, but its mere existence was a definite cause of concern.

  "How did you get this?"

  Tears still streamed down his pale cheeks, and he pointed behind me, towards the tub. "Don't make me, Mish, please don't-"

  "I shall do no such thing, loveling, now, tell me, where did you-"

  He kept pointing and weeping and shouting. "Don't make me, Mish, don't make me! Don't make me! Don't make me!"

  He was causing such a terrible noise, that I feared Madam would wake, and Madam was so tired, and I shouldn't upset her, and the child was so aggravated, and –

  "Don't make me! Don't make-"

  I tried to hush me into silence, but finally, when all else failed, I simply had the tub emptied, the water slowly beginning to drain. "Here, see? No more water."

  The sight of it silenced him, but did not calm him in the least. If anything, the way it ran down in circles, down those messy pipes, seemed only to exercise a horrid and fearful fascination upon him.

  "Now tell me how you got hurt." My tone was soft, soft and warm and protective. This did him good, as he gradually relaxed, though he still wouldn't look me in the eye, and he still followed the water's course madly.. "Will it be our secret?"

   I nodded. His voice came to a whisper. "I was in the forest."

   Damned habit, I would speak with Madam the very following day, and I would confront Master Thomas myself, if I had to. All was well until the child got hurt, I had made that perfectly clear. Lance was now bloodied, and I would make certain that Master Thomas never forgave himself if there would be a scar. I somehow felt there wouldn't be. But still.

   "How did you fall?"

  Silence, at first. And then, "I didn't."

  Alarm rang thick in my voice. "Then what came to pass?"

  "We were playing."

  I blinked off an odd mixture of surprise and indignation. "You?"

  "We were playing hunting," Lance said, as if never interrupted, "and I got to be the deer. The hunter got me, and he had to draw blood – " my sudden gasp attracted a small smile, the same sort he had given Madam earlier, the smile that meant he knew all too well my fears, and wanted to be mature enough to lie me into a false security. "He had to, you see, it's how it is. Hunters have to draw the blood of the pray, it's how it is, we always play it like this."

  Oh no. This had gone quite far enough. I would draw the line, and whatever friends my little angel had made would have their punishment for this crude, barbaric display of childish play. "Was Grandsire Thomas with you?"

  The thought of it seemed to Lance a foreign notion. He frowned, slightly. "He wasn't playing, why should grandsire have come to play?"

  This introduced a new problem. If the Master hadn't been there with him, then surely he would argue that the boy could go out hunting so long as he was well- accompanied. Not that a man well in his sixties could ever be accounted for as good company, but it was hardly as if one could hope to convince him of that. I would have to stand my ground firmly, yes, and then Madam would no longer allow him in the forest. Which was more than good. That was no place for children, no, no place at all.

 I would address Madam on the matter tomorrow. Yes, indeed I would, though I would have to prepare my arguments and present it all to the Madam gently. No need to upset her. No, I would deal with the Master Thomas myself – and well, perhaps the time we'd spend a month from now, at that Hellsing estate would teach Lance a bit more of finer crafts than hunting. Master Robert would be there. Master Robert would teach him well.

  I picked Lance up, and then soldiered on to his bedchamber. The little one was tired. I kissed his forehead gently, wiping a last tear from his soft little cheeks. He looked up to me, this time, and the faintest smile crossed his lips.

  "No more water," he said.

   _No more water_ - I was nodding again – _and soon, no more forest_.

**Author's note:** the first, and last (no need to mention "and only", I imagine?) narrative made by Margery Cairne, governess in the Hellsing's service – this is, as the title puts it, an Interlude from the true story. The next chapter shall return to Kester and London and Alucard.

   And yes, this piece was frightfully important. Too important, in fact, as it deals with the plot perhaps more than the other two parts together.  And yes, it needed to be inserted right here, and right now. I'd again ask for some trust, but I do fear it becoming a habit.


	4. Chapter II

**Rating:** PG-13, might go up to R. (PG-13 for this chapter)

**Dedication:** to Mish, the lovely Puck ¾, whose birthday we celebrated on a tolerably recent date as for the dedication not to come in excessively poor taste. And to Thess. Thess, I love you for _it_. I would squee to all eternity for it. Which reminds me. Ta-ta-ta-ta… --whistles-- ta-ta-tata- Se-u-ra-me-tum…--whistles-- Thess is goddess mine, ruler of the universe, supreme being of Hellsingness!

**Author's notes at the end.**

--------------------

**_August the 14th , 1994 _****_– _**

**_ Present article ceded to the English Crown and by Italian decree on the 8th of August, six standard days prior to current date. _**

**_ Article granted to the Hellsing institution on the 11th of August. _**

**_ Article included in the Hellsing authorised archives after a three day (11th -14th of August) test period and verification of authenticity. Test results accept an error rate of 2 due to the age and condition of the document, but may verify it as having been handwritten by Christopher Hadrian Hellsing. Psychological interpretations also confirm that the structure, style and mean of expression pertain to the Lord Hellsing. _**

**_ Further notes: The following article is only a copy. We believe the original to still be located under Iscariot and consequently Vatican jurisdiction._**

**_ Recommendations: the following, albeit an acknowledged as truthful account should never found the basis for one's arguments or conclusions. It is widely known that, if someone should have benefited from altering this document and presenting it as an accurate depiction, than that particular individual would have been waving Roman banners. _**

**_-Integral Hellsing_**

_Early 1900 – ? (Undetermined due to nature of death)_

_Christopher Hellsing_

_ "I don't care for you to go, please don't, oh please don't!" He smoothed my hair into place, hand still trembling, still carrying _that _smell. He was crying, which was odd, as he was not in the habit of shedding his tears when in anyone's company. And never before me._

_ I clung to the sleeve of his shiny red coat, but he slapped my hand away as if my mere touch could burn him. "Is it because of what I did? I'm sorry –do pardon me! Beg pardon, sir, please! Don't leave again, I'm sorry for what I did, I'm really sorry. Trust me, sir… Papa, I meant none of it! None of it! Arthur was just - I didn't mean to-"_

_ "No! You mustn't say it! You must never say it, and we must never talk of it, do you hear me? Never. This never took place, and you know it, don't you?"_

_ "Yes, sir…"_

_ He clasped my hands together and into his greater own. The smell poisoned the air, sickened me, made my eyes water. I hadn't even taken note of my tears, though they now stung my eyes as I nodded to all his words. "Never took place, say it after me, you never did this, you never saw him in that state, you know naught of it!"_

_ "Never happened," I repeated in my mind, again and again, until I finally managed the whisper._

_ "Yes. I need my peace. I…I need my peace after all this. Vienna, that's perfectly close, still on the continent. I'll return shortly. A year or two, no more. " I looked away, trying to hide my sobs as much as I could. It wouldn't do for a boy of my age to sob, it would displease Papa terribly. And maybe, maybe if I was brave, then he'd reconsider. Maybe he wouldn't leave…_

_ "Please try to understand, I could never…it could never be as it was." _

_ "But it never happened, did it?" I'd learned my lesson well. A bitter smile repaid this precocity._

_ "Yes, it never happened. From the minute you walk out of these woods, it all becomes a a bad, bad dream, and you must never tell a soul of it, Christopher." And I was nodding again, nodding as I knew would please him. "You must never tell, Christopher. Swear that you'll never tell."_

_ "I shall never tell, sir…"_

Sir…

Sir?

"SIR!"

My eyes snapped open and reality dawned in, choosing the unappealing form of a darkened train compartment and Tomaso Fiorelli's face as he leaned over me. He ceased shaking me at once and excused himself to his place. "We've just stationed."

I nodded, warily. "How long have I…?"

"About half an hour. You appeared in need of rest, so Mister Robert suggested we leave you as you were until we'd be coming by London."

I tried to get up on my own but accepted Fiorelli's extended hand and his willing support upon failing miserably. Scouting for Robert proved futile. "Where is he?"

Fiorelli shrugged. "Already down. Said he could do with a bit of air."

He pried with my sleepy stupor and we slowly made for the corridors, and then the train's exit altogether. The conductor bowed his head in small courtesy to Fiorelli. Catholic, no doubt. Catholic, perhaps like my very father. I could see why Robert required his peace, why I myself had benefited from rest. So much of the present version of our accepted truth was growing alarmingly intolerable.

----------

He was smoking a thin French cigarette when I found him, which was odd, as I had been most certain that he was not in the habit. I could certainly not tell where he'd got the blasted thing to begin with.

"I apologize for the delay," I said in the stead of greeting. "You should have woken me earlier." He nodded, blissfully engaged with his cigarette, thin shallow smoke rising up and poisoning the air.

"It's all right."

"We ought to leave, Robert. If we want to-"

"Be on time for our arrest?" His eyes were watery; I wanted to think it was from the smoke, but there was a pale light of fatigue on his handsome face. "What's the ultimate goal here? None. We can't even place any trust in this Fiorelli sod, can we? Of course not. More fools we if we did. But if what he says is true… "

"There shall be no arrest. We're not committing any sort of treason. Unless they have substantial proof to otherwise, we are in full liberty to do as we will. And they can't produce such proof. Anything that is there is ours. Hellsing property, dead or alive." I offered him my hand and after a pause I said, "Our blood. Our lineage. Our heritage. We have to claim it."

"Why?" He said in disgust. "For you?"

"No. For you, for your children." I took a deep breath. "For Hellsing."

He threw the cigarette away, the light yet to have burnt from it completely. Robert had a pretty golden watch, and he consulted it before, sounding irritated, he dashed off to where Fiorelli was standing, crying, "For Hellsing. Vivat Hellsing, and to blazes with the rest of us!"

I saw him go, and then I looked at my hand. This hand that never reached him.

----------

We took our time in reaching there, wherever _there_ truly was. Now, theoretically, I knew perfectly well where the address scribbled hastily on Papa's letter was situated; it was one of the many edifices placed in the northern alleys near the Opera. While the very idea of holding a vampire in the middle of the civilized world left me the thick taste of irony in the back of my mouth, I still couldn't but be fascinated by both the madness of Papa and his associates and their genius.

We walked on for the better part of an hour. Grubby streets and their grubbier inhabitants gave us the greet of doom that was London at winter's pass, and yet I couldn't but feel sadly at home. Hellsing manor may well have been the altar of my early childhood – but when it came down to it, London was where all the Hellsings would return. London was our haven.

Fiorelli kept looking back a few times, and this annoyed a cranky Robert to no end. He rolled his eyes as we made our way through Hyde. "Is anything wrong, brother?"

Fiorelli's brows narrowed in little but one tight V. "No…" But he looked back all the same.

"So what exactly are we to find?" I asked, between heavy breaths. Exercise. I lacked exercise under any form and should likely follow it whilst supervised in order to assure future results. As it was, I should have had a better outcome had I crawled all the way to the god-forsaken place.

"Oh, well, nothing much, I suppose. A vampire, probably terrifying, century-aged, oh the usual."

Robert kicked at the green in which he'd sunk his foot. I shook my head wearily at the silent question haunting his eyes. _No_, I did not know what that was. _Yes_, I did think it for the welfare of my sensitive stomach that I did not ponder the answer. _Yes_, I did believe he should throw the pair out as soon as we arrived back at the manor. "The…usual?"

"Well, yes. I say, have you never seen a vampire before?"

My cousin snorted. "But of course we have! Right there with the Dark man, ghosts and –what was that, Kester? Santa Claus, was it?"

I nodded. "I liked Santa. And the Easter Rabbit. Terribly nice fellows, a bit cheap on the presents-"

"Yes, yes, and Uncle Abraham was so suited by that white beard, didn't you find? Beard and big bad stake, the season's accessories."

"Quite. Vampires aren't all that much, more the talk about them than anything else – why I remember when I first ran into one, gave me the chills, really, but that's only because I didn't know you could just-" And suddenly his eyes were little but popping out and what I had once believed a delicate, talented hand became every agriculturer's dream. He drew me down with him and felt compelled to make sure I got the hint by yelling in the most sensitive spot of my ear:

"DOWN!"

What followed was an unexpected wave of chaotic movement, and then a fury of sounds; Robert, still retaining his dignity was all cool and collected, standing and taking a perfect aim at…a bush. A stray dog wagged his tail in a friendly manner, and the only threat it seemed capable of posing was that of chewing our ears off. We could almost count his ribs.

I tried to push Fiorelli off me and then got to my feet. "There's nothing there."

He laughed lightly. "So there isn't!"

And then _he_ walked up from behind the stray.

"Fratello Fiorelli."

I could see even before he had deemed to utter word that the man was clearly and irrevocably Italian. Unlike Fiorelli, he did fit the pattern, and most excellently. A slight aged, a man in mid forties, he had the mature fortitude and rough elegance of all this Roman gent, as well as their arrogance. There was nothing not even the distinguished cross on his chest could do to draw him in a modest light.

Fiorelli brought me up – damned be those hands. I had never thought he could – well- he did seem so _tiny_, now didn't he? Then again, so did some oxes. I took a moment to ponder whether we had been in grave error all this time and could have spared ourselves his conversation by conveniently providing him a pile of grass. If he didn't have those sort of inclinations, well, he could just overlook it and we'd all pretend naught was amiss – otherwise, though, let the man have his grass, I say!

"Yessssss…? That would be…me…"

"Suscepit Israel puerum suum, recordatus misericordiae suae. "

Brother Fiorelli's frown deepened. "Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros, Abraham et semini ejus in saecula. "

I little but choked as he chanted the name – Abraham. Abraham like my Father, and Abraham like the biblically accepted Father of us all.

"The Magnificat?" I said politely in English. Though privately thankful for the then obligatory investment in studying Latin during my time at Oxford, I felt there was no need for a show of conceit and that I should therefore keep to a language that I knew myself capable of mastering.

Fiorelli gave me a circumspect glance, but nonetheless nodded. "It appears my replacement's arrived." The priest stepped forward. "I am the Lord's Servant, Cesare."

"Father Cesare," Robert repeated. "And you'll be our escort?"

"If you will take me."

My cousin gave him a rare smile. "I never did fancy dying without a priest around."

"And you'll unfortunately have to do with a brother," Fiorelli said suddenly. The elder priest kept his silence for a moment, but could hardly abstain from all comments.

"Pardon?"

"You heard me. I would rather an Iscariot – someone they're acquainted to already- take them further."

I tried to settle things out, but Cesare suddenly feigned delight, and gave us a laugh. "Oh. Well. How nice. I'll be sure to inform the Holy Council of your…zeal."

"Do that."

"Tread with care, boy."

"Is that a threat or advice, my Father?" Brother Fiorelli enquired blandly.

"A suggestion, my son. A suggestion. Don't place a higher wager than we can all afford to lose."

"Si. Arrivederci?"

"Wait just a minute," began Robert, oddly shy, "don't we get a say in this?"

We didn't.

Cesare secured our way out of Hyde but sadly wouldn't join us any further.

"This is more than your heritage," he told me as he Fiorelli and Robert took lead and I was with no one to keep me company, "This is a matter of grave importance. So many things run at risk that it is your duty to retrieve a part of the past that can so greatly influence the future."

I should have liked him to stay, as he clearly seemed the more informed of the two, and this thought led to another. I wondered from what exactly had stemmed his particular acceptance. If anything, Fiorelli's rank was well beneath his own, and so why in the world should it have mattered what the brother would have to say?

To Robert's regret – "Just a bit of feeding, Kester, you wouldn't imagine what I could make of him!"- we had to leave the mutt behind. For just a moment, as he bobbed his head and gave a little sigh, Cesare looked very much the stray dog himself.

----------

"What was that? " Robert asked, as we made past yet another lowly square whose identity I could barely make out in obscurity. Dawns would not be soon upon us, or so I reckoned, for the winter nights had always been most unforgiving in the British plains. I rather suspected they would not be particularly lenient in the one night when a bit of light, at least, would give a hand in seeing where to turn right, if not put our qualms at bay.

Fiorelli shrugged. "What was what?"

"That. You – didn't you- you said you'd pass us on to your higher authorities, to anyone else Iscariot sends over to replace you. Now, are blind AND daft? Here, Kester, give the man your hat that he may go and beg a bit and earn us a fair penny! THAT WAS YOUR REPLACEMENT, YOU INCOMPETENT! You were supposed to hand us in!"

For reasons beyond me, I'd begun to feel just a slight dizzy. Tired, too, although I couldn't tell Robert, he'd have insisted on that we lay claim on a room for a few hours, and we couldn't waste the time. My head was threatening to burst. The exchange between my two companions came and went, like the auditive equivalent of mismatched shadows.

"Oh. Well, I changed my mind."

Head…hurt…

_ But it never happened, did it?_

"…you changed your mind."

"Yes. Listen, Cesare's just an old dog, looking for old bones. Daily digest now: there are no older bones than a vampire's. And besides…there's bad blood between Cesare and…uch…everyone else? So you're better off with me, truly. "

We groaned but soldiered on.

I turned back to wave Cesare off, in one vague attempt of maintaining some form of courtesy.

He wasn't there.

----------

It had originally been built as a medical facility, but then the administration had sadly drained its funds and been forced into selling it into private management.

"Doctor Hellsing had it serve its initial purpose, though," Fiorelli added with delight as he opened the doors for us and let us in. And then he threw the most flabbergasting comment in known existence. "Oh, and by the way, I shall have to tie your eyes, but I think the folds match your coats quite nicely."

To my great wonder, it was Robert who first agreed to it.

"It's no point fighting it. It's a policy in most secured places, and this does mean there's thankfully civilization to come," he told me when Fiorelli took out two black and velvety blindfolds – from probably the same mysterious and unseen source that also provided the French cigarettes – and prepared to slide them over our eyes.

It felt odd to no longer see and partly, because of a small patch attached and sewn to the sides, smell. I cannot describe the feeling, as it's surely one to which many people have been confronted with in the unlikeliest and comfortless of circumstances. It was very disturbing, however, and I liked it no more than the last glance I had been allowed, which had encompassed Fiorelli's feverish-looking face and his broad smile.

This was all very uneasy on Robert and I. Fiorelli's recent conduct barely helped. For some reason or the other, he'd got peculiarly excited, kept looking back and forth, would never still himself – all this since we'd neared the mansion. He was, if possible, even more talkative than as to his now conceded habit; either that or he fell into long silences crowned by luxurious smiles.

I fixed a stray strand of hair back behind my ear, fingers running into the fold once-then-twice. My lack of decent sleep was showing – I was becoming far too suspicious.

"Just don't lengthen this unnecessarily, all right?"

I could feel Fiorelli's Cheshire smile, even though I couldn't see it.

He led us through dark corridors and darker still stairs. Up and down, up and down. In the end I couldn't tell whether we were a mere stair away from the entrance, five floors up or three under the ground. I hated it, hated the darkness, hated my invariable dependency on something I could barely grasp. Sounds and the feel of movement had never been my fortes, and my slight feebleness made me disinclined towards them. Robert, however, was talking matters even worse.

He'd been lighting up one French cigarette after the other and would chuckle quietly ever now and then, as if a drunkard playing with his next dose. He nearly fell once, but then Fiorelli gave him a hand and his dignity was spared the trouble. He burnt his fingers a slight on the cigarette he'd dropped, though, which made him reconsider another one for the better part of five minutes.

It was this incident, actually, which had me speak up a while after. "We've been running in circles."

Fiorelli was thrilled. "Oh how wonderful! I'd never actually thought what they said was true – you know, the part on blind men, well technically, any man lacking sight, being able to adapt and just develop a far keener six sense, and-"

"Actually, that's Robert's cigarette under my left foot." I had stepped on it the first time as well.

Robert gritted his teeth hard enough to have them scratch among themselves most displeasingly. "You had us run circles?!"

"Well, no. I was giving you the grand tour!"

"Fiorelli, I want something inscribed for all of history to relish on, a new record of sorts. Congratulations, Brother. You're the first person to have inspired another to harbour the urge to play the harp on your spine. You unspeakable idiot."

I did my best not to laugh.

"I needed to do it, you see, all part of the game."

"Game?" Robert wrenched away and probably stumbled into the wall. I stopped walking.

"That's it! I've had enough of you, of games, of bloody vampires, of – what the hell have you done, Fiorelli? How did you tie these things? Kester, can you untie your fold?" I couldn't. The soft velvet cover broke under my fingers, but the true strap was cold and tight around my eyes. "You bastard, I'll-" He knocked himself even more to the wall, and the slight snap announced what could be a bruise, or possibly a fracture.

"Robert, let me handle this. Brother, would you kindly untie our blindfolds, please? We're probably well somewhere we couldn't possibly recognize and we – well, you- don't need them." A mild consideration and courtesy for a supposed ally was all good and well, but we were less prone to such acts of civility when they were imposed. I didn't like this in the least, but I had learnt better in court than to let it show. No, it was one thing with Robert, he could handle any sort of unbalanced fits as he was my cousin. With Fiorelli, on the other hand, I couldn't afford a sentimental streak all too soon.

He was most perturbed and deeply ashamed. "I'm afraid I can't."

My clients often felt compelled to share half-truths in the hopes that I'd anger quickly and that I'd provide them a sufficient mental stimulus – "he shan't understand! He'll blame me!"- as to lie to me on the nearest occasion. I gave him his time. "Oh?"

"You'll be all scared if you saw all this – but that's only because you wouldn't understand- and how could you, really, I wouldn't blame you, but if you started to act all scared, then _he_'d know-"

"He who?"

"Robert, I told you to please leave this to me." I made my voice to sound unruffled, almost gentle. It came with a heavy price, that sharp and sharper thoughts on who _he_ was, what we could _see_, and what was going on. "Brother…?"

"No, just listen. I'll do you no harm, neither shall he, so long as you don't let all this get to you." Was that encouragement in his voice? A good omen, if so. "And seeing it would let him get to you, you don't know how he is… you can't imagine how it was for me to first see it all. I didn't want to either, but they told me – be brave, dear boy, be brave and try to make ends meet, you'll see it's hardly this bad…" He took my hand and started walking again, and I tried to clasp Robert's arm as well. My cousin was sullen, and I must have pinched the hurt arm, because he strode off on his own.

"It's all right where I'm taking you," Fiorelli explained as he walked us through another short series of corridors, new this time, though I couldn't tell why I was so certain of it. "The seals are at their most powerful there, but he's still got some of his tricks working on the mansion in itself – it's horrible at night, he tries so hard, then – but he's been sleeping for a while, now, wakes up every now and then…" He was almost sobbing, as if birthing the truth was a terribly and physically costly experience. "And if he senses fright or alarm, he'll be sure to awake. Right now he's only letting you through because " – conspiratorial whisper now, one that Robert could hardly hear – "because you're with me. I had to take you around, let him understand you're here, and with _me_. He knows me, knows I won't let him out."

Cold sweat was on my forehead, clogged around the blindfold, in a very thin layer on the arm he was clinging to. Oh such madmen we had been to trust in him, Robert and I! Who was this man…? Who was this…creature?

"I won't let him," he said a second time. "They told me not to. Six months now, best time as of late, they usually…they usually need replacing every two months or so, but not me, oh no, I came here, and here I stayed, here with him. Do you know how hard it is? How hard he makes it? And does he love to torment me, _us_! He…he...he's…but never mind that, you'll put things right, won't you? "

Warm breath sneaking in my ear. I hate that. Have always hated that. Hated it even then. "Yes. Yes, but I can't do anything…unless…you let me see now that it's no longer imperative to do otherwise."

He hesitated. "But if you see it, and he senses it, well, if you do, will you-"

"I'll put things right." I nodded.

And then hungering hands clawed at my face, a sharp blade accompanying them. It took the fold down, cold thick air cleansing my eyes.

Robert's fold was removed, but I got none of their exchanged cries of indignation, none of Robert's insults and Fiorelli's apologies.

I was alone in my silence.

The grey-hooded figure sneaking behind Fiorelli, each movement only coming as a visual indication. No sound. I marvelled at the technique, and then upon realizing the man's intentions, I also realized that I had to make my own call.

I could either shout and warn Fiorelli to the imminent threat, or keep my silence.

The fold was a helpless black serpent at my feet, the powerful elastenin fibres sparkling their light under the velvet. Small wonder we'd not cut our fingers in trying to untie them.

Moments later, as Fiorelli was thrown on the wall, head slamming to hard rock and driving him irrevocably unconscious, I liked to feed myself the small deceptions of having been too entranced by the entire affair as to have had the chance to react.

But I knew the truth. It was there, in Father Cesare's eyes, as he slid the hood back and murmured a deep, "I'm so sorry."

----------

"I'm so sorry," he said again, as Robert and I were walking again, with considerable less enthusiasm than the first time around. I could now understand where Fiorelli's initial fear of our startle had stemmed for. The walls, everything…all covered in so much blood, layer and layer dried one over the other, black in some places, not even bearing its smell. The corridors themselves were long and most narrow, with rooms at every step – perhaps wards? Animals were piled in every corner, all butchered in some manner, art rewritten in pain. Some of them lived still, eyes popped up and swollen. A dog's head had been removed to hang in a rotting hand. The body was presently stuffed with the vermin of decay and most others I could not as much as make out.

The smell presently prevented by the fold's covering was now overwhelming. Robert was coughing as well, but we said nothing, the neither of us.

Father Cesare kept apologizing again and again and again.

"They shouldn't have sent him," he clarified, giving Fiorelli's body a last glance. He was still alive, or so I had been told. It somehow didn't seem to matter. It was only now that I understood just the sort of shock he had effected on me. My hands were trembling. They didn't, not usually. Had he been – no, _was_ he- insane?

"He has never been quite balanced of sorts…they've let him here for far too long. When he disobeyed the order - he truly did have an order to leave you to me- I could see that I couldn't do as he said." We moved away from the corridor, heading up another staircase. "It's really not his fault. They've just…left him here too long."

Robert played through his pockets. Looking for the pistol, I knew. "Left him here?"

"Yes. Someone always has to stay with _him_. It's not that he can escape; the seals prevent that. But he always tries to push his limits, sometimes extends his powers through the grounds…" He looked oddly out of place. "We left alone for two weeks once. After your father, God rest his soul-"

"-Amen to that-"

"-passed away. We thought that, well, with your father – his master- no longer among the living, his powers would fade as well and that he would thankfully keep to his limits. They didn't. He didn't. There's a mile's worth of gardens in the back." We had seen these, the mess they were upon coming. Needless to say, they had hardly made a well-faring impression. "They were green and lively at first. They'd been designed to appease the eye and calm the patients, so they've always been well tended to, even after your Lord father took the building in."

I nodded in understanding. Appearances had to be kept. "But after he died and we abandoned him, he started…he crushed the earth, made foul dirt of it. Every bit of grass was devoured. Pets started disappearing. We had to come in again because people were beginning to search the land through."

"You guard him, then?" Robert was always one step behind me, though he did seem to generally have the upper hand in blunt conversation.

Cesare came to a brief halt and then went for a few more steps. "Yes. He's not…helpful, Mister Hellsing. We've overcome several complications as of since his arrival here. There's always been an Iscariot with him, but now with Iscariot in itself trying to survive a small division among its forces, we're…lacking in agents."

"So Fiorelli had to stay overtime?"

"His superiors have always been among the sad elite of a group I do not personally consider the wisest." We turned left. "There's hopefully enough of the rest of us to see reason and what precisely this vampire is capable of. And do something about the situation at hand, regardless of our sacrifices."

I stepped up behind him, another corridor greeting me in a feeble light. I was tired, so damnably tired, and Robert was understandably out of his mind with distress. Cesare was obliviously and beautifully rational. I loved him for it.

"We're here," he said gently, and motioned to the end of the corridor. The door in front of me creaked open.

I stepped forward into the room and tried to finger for the cross Nana had once given me. It wasn't there. How fitting.

----------

The painted circle on the immense flooring intrigued me. I had believed it to be a sketch of Abrasax, at first, but then I could discern further symbolism that did not convey any particular meaning – at least not to my knowledge- and that likely bordered on the occult. A subject of Papa's research, I knew, but I had never questioned the morality behind his studies as eagerly as then and there. So much power to it. So much power, and I could sense it, reaching out, touching, ensnaring from the monstrous sketch that covered the greater part of the flooring in reddish light. I suspected it would tie to my limbs and take me down, at one point, but it didn't. Walking by its crimson and frail edges, I completed the circle as well, and stopped near the entrance, from which Robert had not moved and was staring confusedly.

His whisper was husky. "What devilish trickery is this?"

It was in neither mine own or Father Cesare's power to answer. And neither of us would part our glances from the circle's very heart. Moonlight sprawled through unfound windows, so the lighting was poor. But by all accounts, no shadow should have instilled itself in the middle. Still, the obscure had been given full reign, as there was one. It took me a moment to distinguish it as a figure, formed yet fading, almost one with the stone I could only divine as cold and inhospitable. Had it writhed, there would have been a greater measure in our capacity to classify it. But it didn't. It was inert. On the ground and inert, dark and shapeless.

There was no straining of the mind involved, however, and no priceless guess work. We knew who it was, and, most importantly, I also knew of its damnable station: a vampire slave to a human master that had come with offers of redemption.

I sketched a step forward to try to contact it, but Robert's reaction came first and irreversible. His hand snapped up, and with it the pistol, shiny and well targeted.

"You! Up, hands and all other appendages where I can see them." No movement. The first shot went directly to the core and to the shadow. I had never been acquainted with my cousin's exquisite marksmanship skills, but I now found myself ill at ease to have done so. The sound had been deafening, amplified by the echo. He'd shot without thinking, but with proper aim. Who could tell of how poorly the creature must have been doing? How weakened it must have been, and now we-

It didn't move in the slightest. I began to doubt whether Robert had indeed missed, but then the soft trail of smoke cast in the dense, cold air spoke highly enough of its way and direction, as well as likely pause point.

If there was something there, something living, I could not allow that it come to harm. I held out my hand. "Robert. Your pistol, please."

He made for the shadowed frame again. "Oh come now, Kester, aren't vampires supposed to be unmarred by such things? Where's your sporting spirit?" And then, to the shadow, or the room itself. "You there, hullo, we're from the investigations department." He flicked the switch a second time. "We're the ones who dispose of useless filth. No question on the filth part, but you also ruddy useless?"

No answer.

An eternity passed, or might well have passed, and there was no answer.

Like a clock that died and couldn't show the proper time, but kept ticking.

Tick-tack. He was not answering. Tick-tack. He never would answer. Tick-tack.

My hand was still held out in the open. "Please."

He submitted it, displeased, and I pocketed the gun with unhidden distaste. My fingers felt numb a short while after the brief contact. I had never taken to weaponry, never in my entire life, for I had little command over them. I had always carried the utmost respect but also dread for my grandsire Ferdinand, who'd insisted that all his grandchildren master the firearm in some form and had therefore taken me with Papa and himself through all hunting trips, ever since my feet could keep me standing. He'd handed me a pistol of small dimensions, when aged three. I had been the precocious sort by that I could already speak comprehensibly ( quite laudably, in fact) by that age; all other abilities, however, had been limited. I couldn't play ball as all my other companions, but I had been expected to pull a trigger.

However, for all his enthusiasm and determination, after a few disappointing performances, even grandsire had as much as called my aim disastrous. He'd been merciful and not mentioned the trembling fingers pulling the trigger, the diverted trajectory that had not even grazed the ends of a wooden target that would never move, and could not move. That was not of the living, but still bore life in my mind, and was therefore untouchable.

Father Cesare stiffened. "Don't!"

But I wouldn't listen. I moved towards the inner circle, steadily, slowly. Thin trails of blood, as ancient as the one that had drained the steps, stuck to my shoed, glued them in.

The image I could discern more clearly by each step, by each moment that cost me the advancement. There were no visible straps onto it, nothing keeping it down. For all it was worth, I was under the impression that perhaps the thing could wake on its feet and go as it pleased, still it stood deserted in the middle of the chamber, deserted and in a horrible state.

The skin and flesh were untouched: cold and white and lifeless. Marble, stretched and moulded on a distinctly human pattern, carved to represent fingers that would never clutch, lips that would never quaver. Dead, unmarred perfection.

"Pater sanctis," murmured Cesare in one of his prayers. Again, I would not listen. It seemed to be his lot in life, to whisper unwanted advice to unmindful ears.

Fragments and phrases flew through my head, words lost in Papa's report and whose horribleness had damned him. Us. Everyone…

_ The initial procedures undertaken were heavily inspired by tradition. The subject, however, presented a distinct tolerance for prolonged exposure to the sun and had little to suffer from our attempts at burning him. The skin tore off under the flames, the flesh erupted. There was only one isolated cry, and even this of the eerie pain that then served to fasten his regeneration. The smell of burnt flesh quickened, still, his resistance was formidable. Further means of destruction are to be considered._

Long sleek limbs reminded me of the well-conserved bones of a feline. The both were impossibly long and impossibly sleek. As if to emphasize this matter, his position was contortioned and painful.

_ Though an improbable method, we have made use of the suggestion of Sir X (name retained out of consideration for titlage and family), expert in History and particularly the times of the Inquisition. A fact written down in order to underline that the procedure was seen to accordingly. We have gradually extracted both limb and section. The only notable result was the observation that his regeneration capacities are relatively slowed down when the head is eviscerated. _

I kneed at his right side, in slow, languid motions. He was beautiful, so very, very beautiful, though perhaps not in a physical sense. I hadn't a notion of what beauty, the standards of beauty were about; it didn't matter. He radiated power, and this made for his charm and for a beauty beyond all known comparison. I silently traced an invisible line on the side of his throat, pale inverted leather on pale skin. I could now understand why there was darkness, all around him. It: he absorbed the light, feeding on it. He himself was so much of the light that he consumed everything that could rival his own shine.

_ We have faced many obstacles in our study. The first was the mean by which he garnished his powers. To rely solely upon blood would have made his end more accessible. We starved him, but he would not perish. It was in a belated end that Mister Y, Sir X and I reached the following conclusion: he devours life under any form. From the human one – blood – to its stimuli: light, emotions. We have decided that, in order to keep him from draining more power from his surroundings and into himself, we must provide him with a tie to a continuous source of life that he may neither control nor destroy. Mister Y proposed a sealing of sorts. I myself expressed none of Sir X's enthusiasm at the notion, but I am aware that our time grows alarmingly thin, and that measures must be taken, and the line must be drawn. Always, the line must be drawn. _

Papa's words echoed in the back of my mind, as if ever had I heard him utter them. So much of the past had been revealed, I knew, and yet so little. There was the past, even now, on my hands as they touched filthy rags and sensitive flesh.

Where the charmed silence of the place had webbed me in, sudden movement sobered me completely. The man, the creature, the demon. He was moving in my arms.

Ashen lips parted once, sank the air deep. He needn't have bothered, as by my knowledge of the processes still sustained by those in his…condition, breathing was not essential. It came out as a long hiss. And then his eyes opened.

"Hellsing." His tone was an odd mixture of annoyance and exaggerated deference. It was also easily the most musical voice I had ever been given to hear. Musicality, contrary to popular belief, was not measured in the sweetness of one's emphasis, or in the choice of high pitches. Musicality was the great ability of modulating one's voice so to fit a large gamma of distinct tonalities. His calibre was low, and deep, and startling – and in one word, he exchanged astonishment for passion and then regret and then hatred. Sheer hatred under a mocking façade; though this was hardly my first concern.

He had spoken. He lived. And if he lived, then the rest was true as well, the nightmarish accounts of the time of his captivity. A being of God lived, despite of what my Father had done to see to otherwise. It lived despite the horrors described in tattered reports and small tales of great and horrible deeds. We'd done him such wrong, and he had lived through.

I recovered full control of all speaking capacities with suspicious ease. I even persisted in coherence. A wonder, really. "You shall, pray, forgive me. My bewilderment somehow overcame my sense of formality."

"Formality. With a bloody corpse. Hah." Robert's tense laughter awoke shivers in me. He was still standing near the door, looking aimlessly at – or, rather, through- me. And to _him_.

And what a sight _he_ was. White, and thin and all in rags against a chilly wind and Cesare's empty prayers and Robert's bitter chuckles.

"Here," I said firmly, working to unfold the straps of one meagre button, and then giving up completely and tearing what would not be undone. The crimson coat looked finer on his broad shoulder than ever should it have done so on me. I knew Papa, too, would have condoned such behaviour, and taken off his own coat for another in misfortune – and so I had no remorse and saw no irony in the fact that the prisoner bore, for once, the clothing of his captor.

He was now seated on the floor rather than collapsed upon it, and he was moving his hands shakily, as if surprised to still find himself in the physical possibility of doing so.

_ …We have gradually extracted both limb and section..._

His random movements reminded me of a child's, an innocent's. He seemed fascinated by the air, how it floated between his fingers, touching, moulding. His hands then passed on the thick material, the rich red velvet. The long fingers played on each fibre, sinking in on the sides, through the pockets…

A predatory glance swept past me, and I barely refrained from a gasp of both surprise and indignation. One case in which appearances hadn't been misleading: his fingers had indeed passed through the pockets. He somehow found a new smile for me, and then for a long moment, we merely exchanged glances.

Watching. Waiting. Hiding.

I gritted my teeth tightly. Rather cold it was, really. But all would be well, now. We'd return to Hellsing manor. See to my accounts and what the King wanted. Then I'd compensate to _him_ by all possible means, and then-

"Kester, do come. Something here is greatly amiss." The sting in Robert's voice made me look back to him, finding that he was nearing us at a regular pace. He stopped, briefly, at the first borders of the circle's contour, but did not give in to hesitation and proceeded with care.

I nodded, a few times, half kneed and wishing to help _him_ up. _He_ was smiling, and I let this smile enfold me, willing others as it to come, and indeed believing that all should be well. I would take care of it, so that all should be well –

"Interesting," came the so much desired word, and before I could even hear Robert's cry – "Kester, look out!" – he had caught hold of the end of my collar, dragging me close to him. Our eyes locked momentarily, and then I had only one moment to take a deep breath before his fingers enclosed on my neck, and a distinct blur settled in on my vision.

He was pushing steadily, nails digging in skin and flesh, and all I could think of, as the rapid beat of steps on marble – Robert coming to my rescue- ensued, was of how I'd heard such a lovely tale on felines. The circumstances pardoned my lack of recalling of when or who from. My profession carried me in so many circles, after all. It can't have been a "gentleman", though. We didn't exercise such practices. Though we should have. Somewhere, out there, beyond the small world of Sir Huyxley and his expensive cigars (a choice of smoking materials that I solemnly swore no descendant of my blood would come to cherish), a man instructed the average felines to jump and grasp and shatter all they saw to possess the great talent of free, constant movement. Then they let them in chosen dormitories, near the sleeping man whose Adam's apple would go up and down as he would breathe. The damned cats would simply pick and claw at it, and he'd suffocate.

All the blood. All the blood because of a feline. I could have wagered there was silence, in those moments, save for those few instants of pants and chokes.

Silence. Even now, and between my cowardly huffs for air, a familiar _click_ warned me of why exactly no further movement on Robert's part could be seen, and why a red clad sleeve ended with what I could stretch to make out as a darken form.

_ Click _again.

Robert's pistol.

Robert's pistol from the right pocket of Papa's red coat.

Robert's pistol from the right pocket of Papa's red coat that was now on the amazingly well-conserved figure of Papa's former captive.

Oh the irony of it all.

----------

I couldn't see a thing of what happened on that side of the chamber, but I suspected my two companions were being kept in full target. I was pressed too tightly to the thing's chest, and his hand around my neck did little for my comfort. It was no surprise that when I did try to take a full breath, the expiration brought with it droplets of thick, dark blood.

Unexpectedly, Robert spoke first and with uncharacteristic caution. "What are you playing at?"

He wouldn't answer. His face twisted, however, as he saw the little blood I had spilt, on my own collar, on his hands, on his coat. Minuscule droplets, but blood still. His eyes narrowed, then he lowered just a bit, the grip on my throat easing softly.

"Little corpse," he whispered in my ear, and I trembled convulsively under what could be argued as another most untimely attack caused by no more than the wish to breathe like a normal human being. More blood was coming. How…remarkable.

"Your name," I managed. Because he was no more than a confused soul, I knew, and I was to treat him righteously if I were to show him that we deserved his trust. But he paid me no immediate notice.

Click and _BAM_. The sound was deafening, unpleasant. An explosion at minuscule scales that could easily take lives by no more than one bullet's container – and still the entire process replayed again and again in the back of my mind, the gunshot quick and bright.

My skin crawled with what could only be described as a mortified anxiety. Robert- I had to turn and see whether- fingers clenched even tighter than before. I hadn't believed it possible. Alas, one is so often proven wrong, with the most painful of consequences.

"Stay as you are," came Robert's cold suggestion. I didn't think they'd been hurt; he would have mentioned it – and he soon did. "He fired aimlessly."

I made to say something, anything, but new waves of pain reminded me of just what was my place, and what my allowances. "Useless. Filth." _His_ laughter was quick and guttural. "This "- crack as thick, hard metal snapped in a number of pieces- "is filth."

His second hand, now freed, spun me around unceremoniously, dismissing the grasp on my throat yet still keeping it on my shoulder. The shredding of skin, the sudden aggression – all forgotten within the joy of recovering my breath. I could see Robert, now. He'd turned me towards my one support, brave cousin Robert. I could see only him and then the shiny, red trails at the base of my neck, and then some on the upper part of the chest.

Pinned down to a vampire.

I tried to look up – red shot eyes answered a silent call and then a plea.

_ A butterfly's fate, after all. To bleed and be pinned for all to see._ Words rolling in my thoughts. His words. _Let us pin the rest. _

He grinned for a moment, before picking up my right hand, which I had clasped over the left and onto the folds of his coat. Blood was still pouring, so much – too much- blood. Cold lips feathered over the vein, before the tongue encircled the spot in one quick lap. For a moment, the feeling was delicious. Then, as the fangs went in, the entire room deteriorated to no more than colour at its brightest. Too much colour, in fact, brushed together by the faint wisp of sound and motion coming together. Time was frozen, but time was also moving with alarming speed, pushing thousands of flickering sensations in my head.

_ Alucard._

I couldn't place where the word had come from in the darkness and the light and the silent pain flowering on hands I could barely feel. But it was there. The blood was everywhere. On my wrists, and on his fangs, and on my collar, and in his eyes. There was so much blood in his eyes that it sickened me to the point that I closed my own and prayed for forgiveness to that side of me that valued sheer courage. I had always been brave, by that I had always wanted to "see the body". If one "saw the body", either literary or to more proverbial margins, then one could better assess the situation and help the onlookers accordingly.

But I didn't want to see the body now.

Because I feared that I would only see myself.

"Alucard," I exhaled with another full choke, as conscience returned in an eruption of sudden pain and cold. And before falling flat down over me, a wispy sigh escaping lungs that could not work their magic, he laughed.

He laughed.

And he wasn't the only one. I turned around to Father Cesare's indescribable expression. He was keeping what appeared to be a perfectly functional pistol aimed at my head without the slightest moral or religious contrition.

----------

"Mister Hellsing, do try not to move too much, my finger is itching and there's this fine trigger to scratch it," came the abrupt suggestion on a tone and voice that I could barely recognize. "Father Cesare?"

He paid Robert no notice. I wondered briefly whether I could truly blame him. My cousin's injuries at Alucard's hand had reduced him to a minor threat, if even as much. "And tell your pet to keep down. My superiors may need him, but I have a personal preference for my own less valuable life and would therefore not hesitate in having him dead before he can see to the other way around."

I turned to where Alucard still laid spread on the floor, dormant power radiating almost tangibly. I could see his eyes open and then close, fingers wrapping, for a moment, twisting and then letting go. Life…

"There's nothing to tell he'll listen to me. He's exhausted – whatever just took place drained him. Father Cesare, what is the meaning of this?"

"Oh, a very simple one, really. I told you, didn't I? Those of us who still heed responsibility shall have to do something about this vampire and his abilities, regardless of the sacrifices involved." Even an untrained ear could discern the faint click as the safety was removed. Cesare (by now I had developed my own dark suspicions that surely no true priest would endeavour in such corrupted ploys) grinned. "You'll join me for a walk. However, I fear I'm not one for company. One Hellsing will do, thank you – and it'll be the one he's chosen for an early snack."

He turned the gun on Robert, target as plainly on his head as it had been on my own, mere seconds before. "Goodbye, Robert Hellsing."

I screamed. "NO! DON'T! DON'T!" He had to slam me to the wall, and for it was worth, his build was by far too impressive, and he could easily manoeuvre me in a physical sense as to his whims. I tried to think it a nightmare, tried to scream again – my throat was burning, as the blood would be soon burning on Robert's forehead, where the bullet will have passed…

Eternity seemed to slip in slow motion a second time, as Robert tilted his head, smiling faintly. "Goodbye, Father Cesare. Say goodbye, Kester." I shook my head, closed my eyes, made further attempts to will this all away. Perverse last words, oh God, Robert, you fool, you absolute fool-

It was all over in an instant. His pistol gave off a weak thud but knew not the satisfaction of casualties. Cesare fell on the floor, the dagger stuck deep in the back of his throat, even as he helplessly wasted his last seconds to try and dig it out. His breathing was husky, blood gushing even there, making a hiss of it.

"Damn you," Robert said calmly, walking past his writhing body and to the door. Fiorelli, behind me – always behind me—replied to the small nod of acknowledgment with one of his one. Gratitude didn't come easily with Robert, but the Italian seemed unwilling to give this too much thought, and instead focused on retrieving his blade. He took the pistol as well. "We might have need of it."

I too nodded. Amusing, really, just how many emotions a simple nod may encompass. I was standing there, abominably afraid, with cold sweat down my back and little but bile in my stomach; nauseous and dizzy and weary; too aware of everything and everyone and of death in itself to move. A little tick-tack in my mind brought with it a message: _This isn't the first time you've seen men die_. And it wasn't. My profession had taken me throughout many journeys and had escorted me through a tumult of various experiences. Death was just one of them, and some of my clients had indeed been in the habit of shooting the accusing party right after the process, in front of my eyes, only to shrug it off and claim that he couldn't be sued for the same thing twice, even if this time he went through with the deed.

I could hear Robert fishing for a little flask of anything and wondered silently whether Fiorelli would be his saviour yet again and offer some christened wine. He seemed the sort, after all. But then, he'd also seemed the sort who'd never dare damage a fly, and look, it hadn't been a fly but a human being. How rich.

I studied his face with mild interest, in search for that one glint of insanity that had ignited its fire no more than minutes before. "You said you were a priest."

"No. " He produced a handkerchief and gave the dagger a scrutinizing glance. I chanced a look to Cesare, now immobile and, finally, dead. _Til death do us part, Cesare and the dagger._ Fiorelli continued unmoved. "I said I was an Iscariot priest. Different thing altogether. Why, we don't even attend the same Mass. And the "forgive me Father, for I have sinned" is a bit compulsory...."

Robert looked intrigued. "Why did you turn back?"

"You shouldn't have let him do that." He gave me a long searching look.

"Neither should you. What's your game, Fiorelli? You're no madman."

"Reckon not." He said, cleaning the blade idly on each side and wiping the blood off on the sleeve of his dark robes. He was dignifiedly calm as he followed the faint reddish glitter, as if the blood in itself had not pertained to one who would know life no longer. "But then again, you need me."

And there it was, that smile again. "After all, someone's got to nanny _him_. Nice show with the count, by the by, great ballet."

----------

We had to carry him to the station. He was blissfully oblivious, couldn't speak, couldn't keep on his feet; however, he was still something of a burden and neither Fiorelli nor I were the forceful sort.

Robert wouldn't touch him at first.

_He'll be your cross to bear, one day_, I wanted to shout, but I didn't.

We bought tickets for the first train to Swansea and failed to exchange a word until we'd lodged into our compartment and Alucard had been safely stapled to the seat next to mine. I said nothing as they tied him in, and furthermore nothing as Fiorelli took out a cheap, scruffy version of the Bible and began to mumble a few prayers. He then proceeded to tear off a choice of three times three pages in a specific order. He managed to pin them in various parts of the closed space, particularly near all foreseeable exits.

He handed me the remaining, still bundled up in the tough black leather of the aged 1901 edition. "You're the Hellsing now, you should have one along constantly."

I didn't bother to mention how I had personally opted for the less-praised road of cynicism and estranged myself from the formal Catholic image of God altogether. It somehow didn't matter. Robert had ordered another pink gin, and it seemed to take the path of the one he'd asked for on our way here. He looked absorbed by the delightful way in which light played over and within the rosé content and would not take his eyes off it.

"He'll be doing that for a while now," said Fiorelli pleasantly. Alucard, near me, was still sleeping deeply. I had my reservations in his concern, though most of them – I was to confess- were purely childish. There was no repent, no doubt and no frustration in Fiorelli's eyes or in his every gesture. It was as if he had never pressed a blade at another man's throat, and if he had not then witnessed the same things as I. I feared the same carefully studied indifference would lurk in Alucard too. And this…this was far too much for me to even contemplate.

"Cesare wasn't from Iscariot," I said, breathlessly.

"Oh, no, actually he rather was."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, you see…" We didn't. That was the entire point, and I was unfortunately losing all my patience with him and his derisive means of expressing himself. He was perfectly apt for concise and well structured conversation, I knew it just like I knew he was by no means the mental loot he had made himself up to be for that little performance. But I couldn't prove it, and so I had to bear these antiques and hope for the best. "There've been small falling outs in among the Iscariots, and well, some of them seem to think your father was a slight off the bend, but really, the man was an absolute saint, a bit misunderstood…but generally speaking, I rather liked the chap – one-man army – genius…"

It was at this particular point that the God Jupiter bent the knee and bestowed the weapon of the skies upon my faithful cousin. "Kester," he hissed, eyes little but throwing daggers. Ouch, ouch, ouch. I should have been a cadaver given the intensity of his look. "May I see you out?"

I nodded and turned to Alucard momentarily. He was still sleeping, sleeping like a babe in its mother's loving arms. Only this babe could kill, and my wrists glowed with the pain of it.

"Can you manage him for a slight?"

"Well, if one must, though will you bring me some of that pie this time?" He leered at me. "Mister Hellsing."

"I should imagine that, after all that's come to pass, we can afford a bit of familiarity without it being in despicably poor taste, Brother."

"Come, Kester." Robert called from outside.

Fiorelli waved me off. "Yes, do go, Castor."

I followed on Robert's lead unenthusiastically. Castor…?

---------

"Can we trust him?"

"No. Of course not."

"Do we take him along, then?" Click as a lighter switched on, a French cigarette burning its fire.

"Six months. He's been there six months. With him. Alucard. Six month with Alucard. We don't know what we're facing, this much I can and may and will understand."

"But can we trust Fiorelli with Alucard?"

Soft laughter. "Can we trust _anyone_ with Alucard?"

And yet another click as doors glide open. An entire journey to be spent without the smallest note of the existence of this conversation. I don't imagine how it was Robert and I pulled it off. I suspect it was the dread of Alucard raising a second time that had us refrain from shouting our distrust from the top of our lungs.

---------

We were greeted by Mister John Elliott, the estate's administrator and one proud Welshman – a man with a certain disinclination for the pure British blood, and so, Robert claimed, perfectly to his liking. I said nothing on Robert's own distinctly British childhood and his British education, fearing that I should bring him an odd sort of offence by implying that, heavens, he too was a fundamental part of the London circus.

Elliott kindly welcomed us with brunch and a fresh pot of tea, for which I was most thankful.

"Shall the gentleman have nothing?" He was naturally distrustful towards those estranged to the Hellsing estate, and yes this had indeed included Robert and I up to a certain point. We could only count our blessings that now, with two samples of Latin anything-but-perfection at our side, we would be spared the attention and enjoy the heavenly anonymity of the tolerated.

"I've already had a few biscuits," said Fiorelli charmingly. "Though I must say, these are awfully nice, best things I've ever had. Does the madam bake them, I wonder?"

Elliott was unimpressed. "The madam is dead. And the biscuits are church made. Funny thing for a Brother, never entering a Church." So much for civil conversation. "But I was actually referring to the other gentleman. Sir?"

I had no notion of why exactly we had all agreed upon Alucard joining us at the table, though I largely imagined we had thought it a particularly bright plan at the time. It did have its advantages, after all, as being seen in our company would consolidate his position as "the Master's favourite" or "the Master's company" within the manor's many rumours.

He'd slid his hat over to cover the better part of those enthralling eyes and took full advantage of his solitary and shadowy corner. We were a curious image for all those unfamiliar with what the past day had provided to us in terms of introduction to the paranormal. He –rather, Fiorelli- had returned me both the coat and the hat, along with a small explanation on how, while he had retained the model and incarnated with the help of his "personal" sources, Alucard had no need for the things themselves. He'd reproduced and could regenerate them, Fiorelli had added, giving the example of his clothing from London.

"You've read the account of the experiments, I can see you have the papers. You know what he went through. Do you truly think the clothing could have survived lest he had willed it so?"

I couldn't.

We were now dressed completely alike. The count, suffering Alucard, little but bearing the clothes of Abraham Hellsing.

"How are the sheep?" I asked, in an attempt to remove the conversation from a poignant area.

"Oh, fine, fine. We've just invested in about fifty of them, all good for milking. They're almost everywhere, even near the mansion. Heh, wake tomorrow, Mister Hellsing, even you might smell them, let alone the crazed dogs!" Alas, he would not let himself dissuaded. "Is the gentleman feeling ill? He's very pale, our gentleman…rather like the sort the old Lord brought in, in fact you remind me of another gentleman he came with once…" John Elliott stressed in an unfriendly manner.

Robert took instant command, with the authority of the man who does not take to insolence in any form or however thin. "Tell me, Mister Elliott, do you by any chance intend to lay our friend here?"

Elliott's gasp masked any other small invective that might have accompanied it. "…Sir?"

"No? Then stop sweet-talking him on deja-vus," my cousin said with little kindness. "He is not from the regions – not from the country, in fact- and is rather unwell from a hideous experience undertaken when on the ship. And he can't speak the language for the hell of it – which reminds me, do tell the maids to attend to him but not take any of his orders. Why, he asked of one of the ship attendants to strip while he only meant to inquire on the usual tip."

Our administrator's tone was considerably icier. "Begging the gentleman's pardon, sir. What did you say the gentleman's name was…? So I can tell the maids."

Robert smiled cruelly. "They wouldn't be able to pronounce it. Just call him sir."

And now, so much for good service.

----------

I was in a fever for the necessary arrangements to be made so that I might complete my studies on the our unusual guest and prepare myself accurately for the ghastly meeting on the 25th and also – perhaps – a small interview with the Iscariot representatives.

"The Cesare situation is very much noteworthy," I said in no certain terms, and I was surprised to find Fiorelli most eager to cooperate. I should have thought he would oppose, given his own shady intervention, but he was reasonable and complacent enough.

"You don't mind if I maintain a correspondence from here, then? So kind of you. I shall ask for an envoy."

I couldn't wait.

However, fortune was not overly kind, and I was grudgingly set back by an unexpected and unreasonably intense fit that had me in bed for the greater part of five days. My fears of Alucard awaking to find himself in such awkward circumstances that could alarm him were unjustified. He never woke up. I sent him blood, as much as I could part with, in those few moments when pesky doctor Lewis wasn't nagging me about my "uncanny pallor" and when no one was sauntering down the corridors; I sent him blood, but he only tasted some of it, nipped at the most, and I would have to return mere hours later and remove it, lest the smell of aged life's liquid draw unnecessary attention.

I could hardly share this zeal with my cousin, however, so I had to make my own way back and see to it that the blood be removed once I was certain it had aged and grown beyond his liking. He was sleeping, then – if one could call it sleep, as his eyes were still open. He wouldn't move; he didn't move for all the while I was there, and I was grateful for small mercies. Alucard's apathy, however, was curious, if not worrisome.

Even Robert, as oblivious as he willed himself in concern to anything vampire-related, couldn't but remark on it during one his visits at my bedside. "He sleeps all day long! Honestly, what's the point in keeping the leech?"

My medication was bitter and pasty, as always, and so I was glad of my cousin's conversation for providing me with momentary distraction. "He's recovering. Good God, Robert, who knows what he lived through, all the tales to tell, all the sufferance, the-"

"Sufferance? My good man, he was sleeping in a circle, just like he's now sleeping in your former bed. What's so painful about that, I ask? Or has laziness finally started to ache? Oh, everyone on this forsaken land will start screaming their pain soon, then!"

"He's distressed," I said, between yawns. Doctor Lewis had prescribed milk of the poppy.

"Distressed? Oh, would that I be distressed!" He smiled. "Madly distressed, I say! Put me in chains and have me as your slave, I say! If it means sleep and food at one's leisure, then would that the entire humanity were as "distressed" as he is!"

----------

_ Belerophon has met the first Fury, but it was not to the hero that it was intended. He has since then lost Jupiter's grace, I'm afraid. I cannot see how he could either gain control over Pegasus or retain it, but heroes do have a laudable predilection for survival, so mayhap all is not lost? He should like Jupiter to wave a hand over the region, whenever the clouds are not all too numerous._

I read Fiorelli's note to his superiors with a certified sense of depravity. Robert had presented it to me as soon as the steward tasked with any sort of correspondence concerning the Hellsing house had been asked to post it.

"Your pardon, but I've seen their Iscariot priests, and I'm frankly in no disposition for an encounter with a second Cesare," my cousin explained while handing it over. He was chewing on a large brownie, feet slung carelessly on the little pouf in my dormitory. I was still forbidden entrance to any other quarter of the house, and so it was always my guests who would see me. "We know nothing of his exact reasons for agreeing to your service. And I don't know about you, but I personally don't feel all that at ease with letting a perfect stranger see to his possibly treacherous devices under our roof."

I swallowed my pride, dignity and overall morals and applied a thin layer of wax to close the envelope again while trying to reassure myself that, if anything, I could award some part of the blame to the priest. The missive'd been composed in a readable Latin, and I had already ascertained to both Fiorelli and the belated Cesare that my comprehension of the language was impeccable.

Stephen Albright said nothing when he was returned the message and told to deliver it to the post as initially requested of him. He said nothing, but he shook his head as he walked out, and he had a hand pinned on the minuscule rosary hanging by his throat.

----------

My illness had an unnatural sense of sadism of its own – either that, or the most curious timeline to follow. On one night, I learned this at a heavy price.

The first time I awoke was to sweat. I was covered all in these sickening droplets, and my lungs were threatening to gouge through my chest. I couldn't breathe too well, had to take a few moments to recover my strengths. The great clock in Papa's – _my_ dormitory- was showing a malevolent time, past even the Witching Hour.

The second time I awoke was to blood. The blood coughs had started already. My sheets were all covered in this unholy liquid that hardly presented itself as the object of fantasy, as the ward so many knights respectably requested their yielding rivals. No, it was dried and messy. I couldn't bear the stench. I had to as much as change the linen.

The fit wouldn't leave me in my semi-somnolent state, retrieving me from unconsciousness when it took me, bringing my back to the painful reality of all my bones feeling like pulling a crack, and my gasps and my chokes.

The third time I awoke was to hungry cold lips, to aged blood and unholy screams - "Alucard…"

I had choked again, the claw in my neck had summoned the cough – and with it, something more. Something livelier.

My eyes snapped open, to what little good this would do me. My sight was by no means poor, but Papa had always fancied dark, closed rooms, and so the shadows could dance, and I could see no more than they willed of me.

Alucard.

Silence. He could hear, of this I had been informed – and this link father's documents had described and that Fiorelli had assured me we would share was finally material for me, in its most fearsome form. I could sense his emotions in the back of my mind, was in awe at the chaos in them. He hungered, but this hunger was resent and it was lust for the blood- Hellsing blood - all the same.

Hunger… To devour me… Take everything I had, was, of how he would delight to snap my bones, oh the artistic display he would make of it…blood…mine…he – I …blood…blood…

Blood…

Redden eyes gleamed – but then the eyes, I could feel them as mine own. I had parted in two, and one of these parts was him, and his want, and his bloodlust.

Blood…

Had to have it. Could smell it – everywhere – it was everywhere. Denied so long. Blood. Hellsing blood – no, no, no, can't, not theirs, I wasn't theirs, I wouldn't want for their blood – other – different blood …rich…

Blood…

My head hurt so badly, and I was moving though I could feel myself so far away, so…sleep.

My heart was pounding when conscience returned to me and when, to paraphrase Robert, dreamland was again no more than a getaway at the end of a claret bottle.

When I awoke, there was nothing, and this nothingness was pure. But as I opened my eyes, I grew at such a loss of words, that I could little but feel them scraping in the insides of my throat, tearing and clenching and shattering my flesh along with any valor. I was dumbfounded. The walls, the furniture, even the bed covers, everything was covered up with – oh God-

Heavens knew how I confined the irresistible urge to scream, but I did – likely on account of my growing stupefaction, and with it the sensation that it was all no more than a nightmare, yes, an unkind nightmare that I could acknowledge.

Though it wasn't, and the smell soon proved it, and I had to get up, shakily, and run to the refresher.

It was good that I had not eaten much that day, as it had the disgusting opportunity of coming out now, and down the drain. My insides were being cleansed by the nightmare, but my eyes couldn't suffer the same blissful treatment. I closed and opened them repeatedly, hoping that evidence of it being no more than fantasy would be produced. I only managed to revive that image in my mind, and with it came new convulsive spasms. I threw up.

---------

_ Master…he calls you that…hahahaa…the priest calls you my master…priest…does many things…doesn't know…many things. Thinks I cannot leave my quarters. Hahahhahahaaaa…Master… hounds've such intriguing habits, Master. Are you acquainted to them?_

Alucard. Alucard's voice in the back of my head, and Alucard's laughter.

I urged myself to rise from the lavatory. My knees were weak. For a moment, they didn't hold, and I was frozen in time again. Those images. So much flesh. So much blood. So much horror. The open door to my dormitory – a privilege of the master's bedroom, that a fresher be placed in the immediate vicinity- revealed more of the massacre.

My eyes were watering, from the strong smell, or the futility of it all. Mayhap from both.

Alucard's voice in my head was mad chant.

_ Seemingly not. Hounds don't abandon their master. Hounds keep track, and oblige and listen. _

I stood up, finally, keeping my frail balance by supporting to the walls. Reason brought with it understandable questions. Firstly, there was the matter of why he had done it – malice was out of the question, as I had not given him all that much reason to harbour malice towards me. And this had been a specific attempt to garnish my attention.

It occurred to me that he might have still been puzzled by, well, everything. These were new times for him, and new challenges. Perhaps it had been fear, and no more than a demonstration that he was a monster and we should keep back from him. I could accept such a hypothesis. Again, I told myself, it was more probable to be a reaction caused by fear rather than malice. Never malice. It was unthinkable.

_ When the master gives the order, the hound obeys, and when the hound obeys, it goes after its prey. And do you know what the hound does after it's caught the hunted?_

I did my best to ignore him and taunts uttered in what I willed myself to think of as a bravado ignited by the wish to not seem fearful. Though he probably was – he was alone, and he was more than entitled to judge us as no more than destroyers of the same ilk and nature as Papa. I was no more than the symbol of his tormentor, so he sought to protect himself. Yes, this was what it was all about. A display of power to assure us that he could harm me in order to protect himself. It can't have been malice. It can't have been.

I drew closer to my room, a second time, stopped at the door and measured it thoroughly. I had slept here, I told myself, I had slept here. And still, I couldn't believe it.

"Hades…"

_ …almost everywhere, even near the mansion. Heh, wake tomorrow, Mister Hellsing, even you might smell them, let alone the crazed dogs…_

I finally braced myself for the full and cruel picture: everywhere, bones or fleece, or limbs or flesh. Sheep. Massacred sheep, with their heads cut off and adorning my nightstand. They'd been skinned, and their eyes had been gauged off. Limbs hung to the furniture, organs to the carpet. A strand of intestines had been pinned to the door that led to the corridor, as if lace and Christmas decoration. But the worse had yet to be revealed, and had been kept for the ceiling.

The sign was there – the circle of power, painted in blood to the very last detail, and just like in the secret dungeons of the old medical facility, this too had a shadowy figure at the heart, positioned as if crucified inversely to the ceiling. Only this figure, I had met in advance. It was the only sheep that hadn't been skinned. I could see its fleece – my stomach started shrinking anew as I could distinguish that it was a lamb, and that there was a small black mark on its exposed tummy.

Weak breaths turned to the cry I'd refrained from. Seconds later, I couldn't say whom I'd called for. Cadwell. Fiorelli. Robert. Cook. Elliott. It didn't matter.

All that mattered was the one lesson Alucard had and was still giving me. All that mattered was the blood, the blood hanging on the walls of my room, and the blood between us.

As voices could be heard – Fiorelli, at first, then Robert and the maid servants- I pulled a robe on and opened them the door, all the while thinking of how the absence of what I could count as a dozen – or as many heads I could see- sheep and one lamb could be explained to the flock keepers in the day to come.

I also had to look for Alucard. All in its own time, however. I took a breath as Cadwell, devoted Cadwell stepped in.

"Hell has come," he said softly, then proceeded to usher me out, claiming the smell would do me little good. Throwing the room a last glance, I nodded. Aye, hell had come. And with it, the devil that even then plagued my thoughts-

_ "The hound brings his master the bones…"_

--------------------

_Latin translations..._

_ " He has helped his servant Israel in remembrance of his mercy_

_ According to the promise he has made to our ancestors and his mercy to Abraham and his descendents forever" -- and yes, the Magnificat is indeed a real religious prayer._

**Author's note: **

Long. Very long. Perhaps overly long? Some would (wisely!) argue that the Fiorelli / Cesare bit was completely unnecessary and that it stole from the Alucard highlight. Given how the next chapters are to be positively Alucard centered – but how I sadly require my minor Iscariot plotline?- I'll respectfully disagree and hope for the best. (Shall do my own best not to turn Fiorelli into what someone called a more effeminate, even if supposedly male Yumiko-wannabe. His game isn't the same as hers, actually)

Where Kester is concerned, and the probable characterization discontinuities. Until now, Christopher has been distressed, he has been positively the helpless believer – but all that is unfortunately going to change as the pre-mourning demeanour as well as the Alucard influences take their according place.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that, the rating to this piece will grow to R at one point, and that characterization is one element that will lead to said development. I suppose this is a warning of sorts: people, things aren't going to get prettier. If you think this isn't suited to your tastes, well, thank you for having read insofar.

Next chapter? Hmmmm….I cannot guarantee an exact update time. So, uch, same time, hopefully this year?


	5. Chapter III

**Rating:** somewhere between PG-13 and R. If you feel that the chapter's true rating is closer to R, do let me know, and I shall make the necessary changes.

----------

"I'll kill him," said Robert softly, as he removed the safety patch. I had seen a good deal of Robert's temper and could accurately assert that, while he was louder and considerably more vicious during one of his fits of anger, those at least held the advantage of fading with time. When he was passionate enough about an ordeal as to be patient when exacting his revenge, he was far more dangerous.

"He's confused, Robert." The tea Cadwell had brought me was cold on my lips."He's not well."

"Neither are you in the head if you're prepared to leave this sans any repercussions."

"I'll have a word with him."

_ Have a word…_

I blinked unceremoniously, rubbing my temples softly, almost as if to squeeze the last traces of Alucard out.

"Christ, Kester. What am I to tell Elliott?" He chuckled, dryly. "That you're one of those sex perverts and had a certain _itch_ only half a flock could scratch?!" He ignored my gasp of indignation and took my cup, drinking with a vengeance. "It would certainly be more believable."

"If you'll permit me the suggestion…we might say wolves were running about."

"Wolves? " – almost choking on his- _my_ – tea. _I never called the wolves. They won't come uncalled. Has no one told you? Monsters don't come uncalled._ "Kester, saying it was wolves, that's-"

"Look, it's either that or officially acknowledging the fact that we're sheltering a vampire."

He seemed to consider this briefly, mayhap because the reality of my alternative was by no means kinder than his jests. "Wonder how long it'd take them to rally up the forks then circle the manor and drive us out of the region." There was a pause. I said not a thing. "It's like to be thirty seconds."

"Oh?"

"We're outsiders, and Hellsings to top it. They've probably been sleeping with hey forks under their pillows ever since we first came in, that is, when they weren't sharpening the cutlery or preparing to light the house." He shrugged lightly, as if in full understanding of such barbaric initiatives. "I've people here at the manor that will give a hand with placing the bones conveniently near the sheds. We'll also have to take the fence down as soon as dawns come, for the realistic touch. I shall have them assigned to London tomorrow, so there'll be no further ado."

"Good." I nodded. "Good. Shan't you please see to the supervision?"

"If I must."

_Must he? Oh no. I can rip his head off. But must I do it? We're the products of orders. Order your slave, Master, have him killed, Master, it's what he's there for…_

Stop.

Stop now.

God.

_ There are no Gods but for those you build yourself... _

I made for my cup, turned to the open window; took my fill of clean air. Another sip. I would have to send the tea set with Cadwell or any other woken member of our personnel. I sadly had nothing to fear on that we'd find ourselves without where assistance was concerned, even at these untimely hours. The latest gossip should have been sufficient reason as to justify an unseen devotion that would conveniently offer them the chance to see why exactly the new Master was haunting the mansion and screaming like a madman with not the slightest tangencies to the real world.

"Kester…" I was appalled to find Robert still there. I could have sworn to my supposed solitude, and yet now with Alucard here, peace of mind would never again be attained. "Yes, please, Robert?"

"How far are you prepared to go, Kester?"

_ How far will you follow?_

Ah, but how far will he take me?

----------

I couldn't sleep after this incident; I decided to take a walk.

Robert wasn't in the immediate vicinity to stop me, and I assumed the servants to have been ordered in their beds, since, though I could hear their muffling behind closed doors, I could see no one.

_ Afraid. They're afraid. _

I could still feel Alucard, so foreign in my mind, so intrusive. No more a friend than the doctor Lewis or Elliott, no more an enemy than the Lords of the Council. All of them wanted something, and yet this something was rarely a matter of which I would voluntarily dispose.

My feet sunk in the carpet, and I had to try and support myself to the wall. Even in this, I was less the wiser, more the hunted. Blood given freely, but blood I sorely missed. However, I felt that if I could reduce my faintness to the status of a mere inconvenience rather than an impediment, I could safely proceed to do as I had originally intended. I was going to have my walk. I couldn't sleep in that bed anymore, in that room.

The stairs looked menacing beneath me, an endless list of small deceptions. _It only takes one step_, they were saying to me, _one step and you'll be rid of us_. But I knew too that it also only took one step, one wrong step and they'd be rid of me.

I concluded that whatever step I took was to be the right one, a sad resolve, as my vision had blurred considerably.

"Oh, Hades," I muttered, trying to remove pestering golden hairs from my forehead, from over my eyes. I couldn't see. When finally I was secure on my spot, I gently made to cover the small distance between two steps with the assurance of not ending up on with a broken neck –

-- _"Chris?"_

I almost fell. "Who-who's there?" I called, adding in no uncertain terms that such jibes were ill-suited. Cold sweat was all over me, no one had called me that in ages. And I couldn't see.

_ Chris?_

I hurried down the stairs, missed a step, ran when I could barely breathe.

_ Chris? _

It was coming from the door, a voice that wanted in. There was a pale of wind outside. I clung to my coat and walked on.

It plagued me with hideous alacrity. Through the gardens, by the pathway, near the gates – everywhere. _Chris? Chris? Chris?_ Passing by the cemeteries, an imperious urge to visit Papa's tomb was arrested in the name of a worthy cause; I couldn't bear the thought of him now, and it would have been sinful to carry such emotions with me on sacred ground. And _he_ was calling for me.

"From the dark flowers, to the black stream," Arthur, beautiful Arthur, my brother Arthur was saying from the memories of my youth. "We're pirates, and we're ravaging the land!" The dark flowers as placed on each grave, crimson or a peculiar shade of blue. Dark flowers.

There was a small river nearby. I could hear its hiss, could almost see the "black stream", a dark serpent in its own right. Had anyone drowned there? As the waters themselves came into the horizon, as I reached the shore and could smell the _water_, I was quickly becoming more and more obsessed with the thought. A soft pulse would beat frantically in the insides of my head, announcing a new migraine – and I suddenly had to balance myself, I felt so dizzy. Damn it, Alucard had served himself to entirely too much of my blood, I was too unprepared for a veritable recovery.

_ Has anyone drowned here?_

And though there wasn't the slightest similarity between the two but for that they did indeed contain running water, I found myself fondly recalling the Thames. I missed London. I couldn't tell why, truthfully. I had lived here as a child and upon my arrival, they'd all acknowledged me as the master and they'd welcomed me home.

The waters were blacker than the night itself, I could see them sparkle every now and then, onyx layers laughing at the greedy king.

_ "Chris?"_ And again someone was calling for me, a child. The voice was young and terribly innocent.

---young and innocent, running through the field, hiding in cleverly chosen locations, where no prying eye could hope to discover us. He was always the faster of the two, and I was a notoriously poor runner. I could never find him.

We were playing at this, had always played at hiding. And Arthur wanted me to find him.

"Arthur?" I asked no one in particular. And as to habit, no one answered. The waters were monstrous…

_ Someone could drown here._

_ "Chris?" _

My last traces of insecurity dissolved. "Arthur!"

Water snaked further and further, dangerous and wild and still-

_ If they wanted to._

_ "Chris?"_

"Why won't you show yourself? We can play anew afterwards!" I protested, trembling with vexation.

And then it occurred to me that perhaps he was the captive of unenthusiastic circumstances. The waters were keeping him prisoner.

We'd been bad pirates, savaging the land – nature was punishing us.

I had to find him, save him. Oh God, this headache. I could barely see now-

_ Why not drown here? _

A shadow somewhere, or perhaps a darker streak between all the rocks, silent in itself, not disturbing the familiar murmur. "Arthur? Is that you?"

And then the shadow died in the waters.

_ I could drown here._

Voice of a child, a shriek somewhere – where was he? Where was Arthur? _-"Don't! Don't, Chris, I'm your brother, you can't-" –_ someone was holding him in the water. So dizzy. I fell to my knees. Single-mindedness accounts for a glorious simplicity. I was a simple man. I had to find Arthur. I had to- must crawl to the water – had to sink, had to swim, had to find him.

_ Icould drown here…_

Stop screaming, Arthur, I was coming, why won't he stop screaming?

_ "Chris, don't! Chris?"_

Why? Why was this happening? What were they doing to my brother? The water was dreadfully cold, cold as only January waters can be, with that stingy frost travelling down the skin. My arms were shaking as I slid them in the cold, my head and neck as well as I threw myself in.

_ "Chris, don't do this to me! Don't! Father, tell him not to – please, Chris, I beg of you, oh God, CHRIS?"_

I couldn't move. My every limb was paralyzed by both the coldness as a secret desire to sink further on, to reach the very depth, to find my brother. His cries were maddening in my head, where the pain had already gathered. I closed my eyes, opened them, couldn't keep them so. Too much pain. Had to sink and find Arthur.

_ "Chris?"_

--and we were dancing around the Christmas tree, Arthur with mama and I with Nana, and Father was laughing and delegating more and more responsibilities to the steward who was already arranging our presents in a suitable order and smoothing the table cloth where it had been tampered with.

"Nana, I'd like some pie," I was proclaiming between giggles. "I'm dizzy!"

Arthur laughed sweetly. "It's all right to be dizzy, means you're doing things well!" --

I was dizzy, I must have been doing things well. There was a hard pressure on my lungs. I was cold everywhere on the surface, though there was a soothing warmth building from the inside, inducing a delicious feeling of numbness. I… I had to…had to find Arthur.

_ I could drown here…_

--pacing reluctantly through the forest, letting Arthur hold me, even though I was no longer a babe, I was six, I could go on my own feet. "It shall all be well," he comforted me, though I kept sobbing, because grandsire Ferdinand had just slapped me over the face. "It won't hurt, he added. It didn't hurt me. It doesn't hurt." –

But it _had_ hurt. No! NO! I didn't want to find Arthur, I was scared of Arthur! I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be in the water looking for him. I tried to move up, tried to come to the surface. Too late. I…it was so cold on the outside, so warm within. Why move?

_I could drown here._

Arthur…why do this to me?

_Hahahaha, whatever did you do to that brother of yours?_

Kept sinking.

_Drown here._

Couldn't breathe. Opened my mouth, the water pushed in and I was choking and I couldn't breathe.

_Drown…_

Nothingness took me.

----------

Coins.

Coins falling, clinging. Cling. Cling. Cling. Three of them. Perhaps more. This irritating sound was a prelude to yet another cold sensation that would try my body.

I opened my eyes to find there was darkness all around. I couldn't see. Two coins placed on my eyes, two coins removed with satisfactory ease, announcing that, regardless of small difficulties, I was once again in control of the elementary functions of my body.

I couldn't say where exactly I was. It was all far too dark, too unpleasant. Coins kept clinging. Cling. Cling. Cling…

A tumult of additional sensations enlisted a call to try my patience. The cold again, a distinct priority. Pain. Revulsion. Annoyance. Fear.

I couldn't disclose the reason for this fear, until I was suddenly offered a hand up. I took it, grudgingly, looking up to thank my Samaritan, but only found Alucard grinning down at me. He was oddly dressed in dark robes, black hood drawn over.

"I am Charon, the Lord of Dark Waters. Come to relieve the world of tiresome Hellsings. I am the war that will divined and conquer you. I am the plague that will make dust of your flesh and dust of your bones. I am the hunger that will eat your insides and have you crave for the blood. I am the death of you and of all that you are."

He shrugged plainly. "The fifth knight of the apocalypse, if you care for less formal introductions."

"What is this?" I was shaking. "What. Is. This?!"

"Your trial, Hellsing."

Trial? I looked around to find there was still no one there. From the sound of water – the black stream, I thought with a certain dread- I could realize this was hardly a happy state of affairs indeed.

"Suicide, such an act of sin. Hasn't anyone told you? Sin," Alucard started with a vengeance, his hand enduring a startling transformation, the clean fingers of a man lengthening, darkening, extending. Tentacles of sorts sprouted forward, shadows bent to his will. They were infinitely colder than the coins had been as they pressed to my arms, my back, tied themselves to me. "You're a sinful creature, aren't you, Hellsing?"

Was I? I had only wanted to- "Find your brother? Hahahaaaa… little Arthur, what did you do to him, Hellsing? What happened to Arthur, hmmm? Such a human disposition towards errors that you should exhibit, Hellsing. Why, one would think, perhaps…you have forgotten?"

This wasn't taking place. It can't have been. I didn't know what had occurred to have ended Arthur's existence, I had told Robert as much, I had far too young- too young – too… "I have no recollection of the times, none! I can't influence that. God, don't you think I want to know? It can't be helped!"

He seemed to have not expected such a childish display of emotion. He recouped his losses with the most fetching of smiles. "Really…?"

"Anything," I continued, obliviously, "I'd do anything to find out, but I can't. They're all dead, those who knew. Nana won't speak word of it. I…"

He pursed his lips and tsked. "Everything can be helped but your mortal arrogance. The jury has reached its verdict." A touch of anger in his voice. "Death."

The tentacles advanced to my throat rapidly, and before I could utter another word, my lungs seemed to burst from the lack of air.

…when I woke up to reality, true reality as I knew it daily, the pain in my lungs had still not left me.

I lay down on Papa's grave, and scavenged at the soil and revelled in the mud. The waters could be heard nearby, though I didn't even take the time to provide myself with the reasonable convenience of an explanation as to why I did not fear the river in itself or why I was still alive.

I was conspicuously cold and felt most dirty and out of place. A part of me, that part inclined to sentimental twaddle was developing its own ache, willing me to cry. But I couldn't, it was the ungentlemanly thing to do. There was no reason for me to cry.

No reason for me to fight.

No reason at all.

I dragged my knees up, hugging them close, rocking back and forth. Wet and cold and dirty. It didn't matter.

I didn't realize how and when hours passed, but I stared blankly to the horizon until dawns had risen.

----------

It was in this miserable state that they came by me.

"M'lord? Oh God! M'lord! Wolves all around, and you here, all throughout the night, right among them!"

The poor sleeping conditions had probably embroidered my face with a clear look of confusion, because I didn't even find myself in the need of feigning a theatrical gasp of surprise.

"Wolves," I repeated impassively, as Elliott leaned to help me up. My clothes were matted with dirt and could have used a bit of blanking. "Is everyone quite all right?"

"No one got hurt – no one saw anything, which is by far the queerer. This hasn't been known to pass since your father-" For only a moment, there was the vaguest glimpse of suspicion in those Welsh eyes that had seen, perhaps, too deep and too far. But the moment passed. He looked away. "All the sheep were butchered, ser."

My head seemed to be made all out of glass, with the barest noise coming to crack a new wall. Thinking hurt. Hearing Elliott speak and trying to discern his words was a torment beyond my endurance. I had rarely been drunk, but I knew this to be a similar feeling. "Have you informed Robert? My cousin, the administrator…"

"Master Robert took a party of ten and went to the woods to hunt down whatever beast within them."

"He should have waited for me," I murmured, all the while wondering why on earth Robert had cared for orchestrating such an overly-dramatic farce. It would only disquiet the men, not to mention raise a few questions; perhaps the tenants would feel that there was more at stake and, with the titled Hellsing master being denied the leadership of such an expedition, they might envision some gigantic ploy, and Robert as the object of someone's vengeance. _They'll think he was the one for whom the assault had been devised_, I considered, but had sense enough as to leave aside from what announced itself to be a more or less casual and civilized conversation.

"Why aren't you with them?"

"There's the rub, sir. I thought perhaps someone had got hurt and decided to give things a look. " He gave me another fearful glare. "A few of the tenants said they heard a child screaming near the river."

I haunted through the corridors aimlessly, like a madman in search of his lost wit. Finally, a purpose presented itself.

Someone had got me out of that river. And I had a weak suspicion of who it had been.

Fiorelli was in prayer when I opened the door. "Oh, Castor, it's you!" He closed the elegant little Bible – such a striking difference from the one mercilessly massacred in the train- and smiled to me, a smile to which I did not answer encouragingly.

"Why did you do it?"

He had the grace or perhaps overall decency not to engage in any lie I would have dismissed violently. "No one else was around to do it."

"My thanks, then." I found myself again contemplating those apparently delicate hands with unhidden wonder. He was a very strong man, for all his other failings. There was a pause, wherein I tried to collect my thoughts, and he looked perfectly well suited in not taking the matter further. I decided to play this card, and let it rest momentarily.

"When can you summon an Iscariot representative for a small meeting?" He seemed to ponder an answer, and I gave him his time. "In a fortnight at best."

"Tell them I shall not tolerate that they bring any arms or accusations, whereas we will be fully entitled to the both. I don't care for it being an injustice, we were the ones who had to deal with Cesare." He said nothing to contest my decision. "I shall also want to have a word with you in the afternoon, once I will have had a bit of sleep."

On that note, I left his quarters.

I thanked God for my diplomatic training and abstained from an immediate visit to Alucard's little lair until I had had a bite. They must have been lemon cakes, for they left the awkward feeling of it being a pastry entirely out of the season. I couldn't spare appetite for more than half of a cake and then deserted the rest of them cravenly.

I had so much to think of, so many steps to ponder. What had happened? What more would happen? Alucard…had this been his doing? And yet…

The knife on my plate sparkled its unexpected light, in the way of newly sharpened blades eager to make their cut. I took it, toyed with its ends, snorted ungraciously at the sight of the family engravings on each side of the holder, engravings that I could only think of as in such poor taste.

Mama had ordered them; she had a complete set. We never used them, because she was so fond of them, and one knife had got lost. Or so the tale went.

-- "_Chris_?" It was never lost, but abandoned. I was with Arthur, in a bath of leaves, and I didn't want to be here, not in the fo-

"Chris, you can open your eyes, it doesn't hurt me one bit," Arthur was saying, and yet I willed my eyes further shut. He kept his palm held up, and right in the middle of it, he'd impaled the knife, so deep that it entered one side and came out on the other. He fidgeted the knife, having it come up and down, up and down. It was sickening. I was young, and I played with toy soldiers, and I thought those bled too. But I didn't like to see his blood.

"You can try it too." A useless invitation. "It won't hurt. Nothing can hurt you now. Nothing can hurt either of us now. Why won't you try it? _Chris_?"

And I too had a knife, didn't I? I too could be brave as Arthur, I too could handle this. The blade was sharp, very sharp. And it didn't hurt in the least, this was magic.

_ Chris_?

The skin broke just like that, just like magic. Arthur had been right, and no matter that it was cold, the water had been cold too. And yet I had found my brother.

_ Chris_?

Almost in, now. I smiled. Arthur smiled back to me, and the leaves took to the air as we laughed at it, this simple game we were playing.

_…do anything to find out…_

"Sir…?"

Reality dawned on to me like a slap on the face. Andrew, Cook's eight-year-old nephew come to take my plates was staring fearfully at my hand.

How odd.

I first had to see the knife half-stuck in my hand before feeling the pain of it.

I let Andrew take me to his grandmother, who was suspiciously acceptant of my explanation – a _most_ idiotic accident, really, Mrs…- and crafted folds to cover the bleeding wound. She was delighted to have me at her table and kept me occupied with the most recent gossip of this and that.

"But then everyone knew that – Andrew, cover your ears, love, granny has something to tell Mister Hellsing – well, we all knew Mister Llewyin was far too friendly with the bottle," she said sweetly, naming one of the tenants I was sure I would never be given the chance to meet. Andrew was sharing half a cold strawberry pie with me, and he looked deviously fascinated by everything he was hearing. " A least it was to be expected after that terribly thing his daughter did, running off like that with that silly man! I said to him one day, I said, "Owen, there's nothing you can do about it, that's life for you, it's cruel, and I know that. But that bottle isn't going to help you, not in the least. In fact, it's only to worsen things." Of course, he didn't listen, drunkards never really do, do they? Why, I said the very same thing to master-"

I choked on my milk. "Sorry?"

"Nothing, sir. Nothing. Don't mind my chatter, sir. Oh, gracious, look at the time! It's quarter past eleven, I really ought to go see whether we're all set for lunch!"

All sentimentality and indignation were avoided as she fled the scene of the crime faster than I could call her back.

Someone in this house… a drunkard? I gave it no present thought, but turned my undivided attention to Andrew, asking a small favour of him.

"Mister…Hellsing?" he said uncertainly, but then he took the offered one pound note all the same and provided me with the object of my request, all three of them.

Basic instincts of survival appeased and vision returned to its normal cooperation with the rest of my body, reaching Alucard was only a simple question of climbing the same stairs I had yesterday nearly fallen over from. It was done in a few seconds.

----------

"Good day to you." I walked in uninvited, and with no fear that he would indeed take to harm me. He was perfectly capable of doing so, but I had my own ideas of his game, and to my reasoning, it did not imply an easy triumph.

He had retreated in the bed, the small baldachin put to its intended use, as I was certain it had not been during either my stay in the dormitory or Papa's. Thick old cloth-of-gold hung in even thicker layers, folded twice or even thrice so to keep the light at bay and encompass him as if in his own little tent.

He didn't answer at first, though I could tell he had heard me. He flinched at the sound of my voice, Papa's voice, and therefore unbearable to him.

But he made his peace with the thought of my presence then and there, and decided to acknowledge it. One of the drapes parted, and he presented himself in all his morbid glory: wraitish of look and haughty of manner. His hair had taken an unusual shade, silver from where it had been a striking black. I did my best not to stare at its pale tresses, turning whiter still.

I stuffed my hands in my pocket then revealed Andrew's small treasure.

One was tossed.

Cling.

The second.

Cling.

And the third.

Cling.

Two pence landed at small distance one from the other, both at his feet. The third, he caught as it would meet the ground, clutching in his hand. "I've come to pay my debt to Charon."

Laughter.

"You have not fed recently." I was already undoing the improvised plasters, observing the cold glitter being born in his eyes as the first streak of thickening blood lay open. I needed only to make a fist of my fingers, apply the smallest of pressures – there. Blood came with a price, a sharp pain, as sharp almost as it had been in its making.

He was no more than a pace in front of me, and this faster than I could blink; there was the growing grin, fangs whiter than ivory extending when sensing the smell.

Silently, with as much dignity as one consumed by his addiction could maintain, he bit. "You cannot take enough as to kill me unless I approve of it, this much I now know. So I would therefore suggest that you do not persist once you have had some nourishment as to maintain yourself." I continued, with as much determination as I could muster. He was not sparing me any discomfort, and fed as wildly as gave him pleasure, to the expense of my vulnerable skin. "I don't want you locked in this room anymore. I want you a prisoner to only what you are. This." I tensed my fingers even more, and a newly born stream of blood did not fail to be pumped into his mouth.

"You think this is enough…" He paused from the sucking, eyes no more than reddened dots and lusting. "Blood… you think this will earn you your life?"

"I think," I said evenly, though I was slowly returning to that feeling of deep exhaustion, "that no matter the wager, you're not going to win."

A select few, one must force into accepting help.

"It's not completely unnatural," Fiorelli was saying over tea, that afternoon, once I had had my sleep. I had asked him to see me as soon as I had woken, and I was surprised to find him so blasé by what for me had been a scandalous experience.

"No, you shouldn't let this affect your normal life, Castor," he continued, with periodical pauses to chew on an overly baked biscuit, "not in the least."

"Forgive me, then, for knowing a certain sensibility at the thought of being possessed by a demonical presence, or at being driven to effectively commit suicide due to its influence. Or Surely, this is one of my many flaws."

"Sarcasm ill suits you."

"So does a pair of fangs." I gave him my sweetest "all teeth in place and should like to be kept in this format" smile.

"It wasn't possession," he said after a while, his voice husky from a few spoonfuls of honey-and-butter cream. "You were the one who invaded his physical form, rather than the reverse."

"Unwillingly."

"Pardon?"

"I did none of this willingly."

"You weren't – maybe- pondering what vampirism might be like? You didn't give the slightest sign that you might wish to-"

"I was sleeping. Not one of my finest moments."

"There was blood?"

"Yes…does this matter?"

"Oh of course it does, Castor!"

"We shall have to take this step by step. Abraham…Abraham spoke to me of similar occurrences. Granted, they only began with him a few days before…before he…"

…died?

He seemed to shudder. "Can you call him?"

"Alucard? I never thought of it. I suppose I can. Though he's sleeping - that is, he probably sleeps." I found everything concerning Alucard's recovery undeniably fascinating. "His recuperative abilities are amazing. But it would seem he has much to deal with. Papa wasn't the kindest of masters, I should think."

"Sleeping? Oh? Tell me, can you sense him sleeping?" He set his cup aside, fishing for the tea leaves themselves and enterprising the disgusting act of removing them by hand and then wiping them on his sleeve. I didn't ask. I rather felt I was better off in my innocent ignorance.

"It's difficult to explain. It's rather not so much that I can sense his sleep…it's not a distinct presence…I can feel him when he does not sleep and so of course it's as if something is just missing when he does."

"I want you to make an effort and remember – prego – were you upset?"

"Yes." Odious man. Made me repeat myself when he could tell I was perfectly uncomfortable with the subject. "Haven't I said this before? I hate it, this thing I have, I hate it. Last night wasn't too pleasant, and so of course I was upset, what else is there to expect?!"

"Nothing," he said amiably, and then, "He has clearly tied himself emotionally to you. Perhaps he has even done so to far too powerful a degree. Don't fool yourself with thoughts of affection - you're merely the nearest living being he may grasp after such a long time. That you are a Hellsing, above all else, may not serve as much to your advantage as you had believed it would."

Cryptic predictions from the dummy.

"Brother, do you or do you not have any notion as to what exactly happened last night?"

"Oh, of course I do. He tried to kill you. Twice. Should make your proud. Will probably give it another shot in the immediate future, too. Don't think you'll make it out alive, myself." He gestured to his cup. "More sugar, please?"

----------

Days passed in their own unhealthy rhythm, and I was sadly informed – and this from firsthand and none too delightful experience- that managing an estate, even when attended by an accountant and when just playing the part of the formal master, was not as simple as I had predicted.

To begin with, the sheep had to be replaced.

"We need them, sir," Elliott was stressing with vehemence, though Robert was firmly keeping his ground in that perhaps we should invest in non-animal products. "Might keep the…wolves away," he motivated

Fiorelli brought me a few reports one day. "From my superiors. They came by mail. It concerns recent vampirical activity, and they think you might benefit from the lecture."

_ I don't believe a word you're saying._ "Perfectly all right."

We had still been shamelessly monitoring his correspondence, and knew well enough that he had not received any mail for a few days now.

We watched him, at times. I found him frightening, in the same way I had found many of the killers I had been assigned to defend at various points in my life frightening; Fiorelli seemed to share their macabre naiveté, the innocence of the man who, unlike those who feel they were right in committing certain barbaric acts, didn't realize they were doing anything wrong to begin with.

Robert slept with his pistol at hand.

I barely slept at all, and when I did, I dreamt of lambs.

Lambs with their tongues torn out, bloodied thumps still hanging in their open cavities, glaring me in the eye, mouthing, "_Chris_?"

Memories or Arthur followed me, and with them, chaos. A few similar incidents convinced me that I was best not left unattended during my times of bath, or close to razors. I made a purpose of not nearing a balcony, of not descending stairs at night. I had never indulged in such severe paranoia until then. My brother asked for me. My brother wanted me with him.

_ Chris_.

Such senseless drama in a little word.

----------

"Such an honour…greatest distinction… how generous and welcoming of the council…of course the Hellsing heir shall attend…our sincere gratitude," Cadwell was saying over the phone, summing up my confirmation of the renewed invitation for the 25th.

Robert stoically endured being told what to do and how to behave and what to bloody wear for the better part of an hour. To his credit, however, he managed to keep the muttering and mumbling at a minimum and even as much as gave his word to try and do his best. He made several toasts in my name and to my fortune, actually, though I imagined that had less to do with my own present circumstances, and far more with his anxiety.

"You should have told me," he said blankly as we came down the stairs, but all I could manage was, "You would never have come." Fiorelli merely shook his head.

"How distinguished you look, Lord Alucard," my cousin mumbled, before storming out just as I paused to survey our newest Hellsing addition. He was immaculate in Papa's red ensemble, which he had again summoned. I made no inquiries on the carvings on his hand, fresh blood still glittering its red on flesh to have surprisingly not been regenerated. All over his hands, they were, circles and inscriptions – I said nothing, just as I said nothing on how Fiorelli had tied clean wires to his throat, or cut discrete crosses into his collar, or drawn needles through the back of his head, leaving gruesome little holes behind.

I said nothing, because I knew whatever occurred in those rooms of Alucard's, whatever happened each night when Fiorelli struggled to contain him – whatever it was the Brother had to do and undergo, this was all part of a craft greater than my own.

"Shall we?" Fiorelli drawled on the words. It was only then that I noticed how remarkably pale he was, how unslept he looked.

Again, I said nothing.

----------

I was in the King's hall, waiting for the council's imminent arrival, and kindly posing a number of rhetoric questions as to what exactly was to be expected of me.

"Who's chairing?" I asked as I took my seat. The gentlemen to my left, a man of roughly fifty and some, whispered back a short, "Huyxley."

Joy of all joys.

Sir Huyxley and his party were announced a meagre five minutes before the chosen time, making a discrete appearance and settling in their chairs without the smallest informal greeting. I had insisted that Alucard should be allowed the place to my right, and had invariably damned Robert to the hell of undesirable company. Apparently, he was stuck between two former acquaintances made in unfortunate circumstances, where he had been forced to act as the offending agent in the name of rivals questioning the possibility of fraud. He'd won one case and faced a draw on another, and so he was now the beloved object of much common interest and a choice of frowns.

We'd arranged for Fiorelli to be permitted stay outside the council room in itself, in a delicate little antechamber where he was to serve a light meal and occupy his time with the charitable endeavour of entertaining the few spouses also in waiting.

Alucard himself was oddly out of place. He had fallen in another of his dark moods, staring blankly from one strange face to the other, unmindful for their wants, unaffected by their curiosity, lost in his own thoughts.

They opened the discussion in an elegant tone, with the few necessary introductions to ensure we would at least be familiar enough with one another as to discern who had said what in the reports placed idly in front of us.

"…Sir Thomas Beckinsgale, Sir Alaric Harris, Sir Antoine Delaware," intoned Huyxley, and one by one the named would rise, sometimes under a casual cheer, others under a stoned silence. "Delaware?" whispered the man on my left, whom I could now identify as Sir Percival Fielding, "I can't believe they've let him in again, after what he did last time! Oh, for shame!"

When Huyxley reached me, I had the courtesy to come to my feet and acknowledge the interested stares. "I assume I shall have to make the presentations from now on. Gentlemen, " I beckoned for Alucard to raise as well, "this is Lord Alucard of…" A small smile. "The Purgatory. As you have all been doubtlessly informed, one of the few Nosferatu in known existence. More plainly put, vampire, my lords."

Gasps. Shock. Disbelief.

Those near Alucard slid away as far as etiquette would allow it so that they would not squash one another. The one closest to him, save for myself, simulated an ingenious fit of coughs and excused himself out. As I was to later note, he never did bother to return.

"You're supposed to rise," I said weakly, to which, finally directing some of his attention to the real world, Alucard replied with a casual, "To my recollection, those of higher ranks keep to their seat. You insisted on presenting me as a lord, you gave me a human title, and a human distinction. Give me then my true human rights. I ruled in my mortal life. I will not be ruled in this pretence at it."

Sir Flavius Alexander was in awe. "How dare you…?!"

Alucard favoured him with a smile. "And as a general rule, rulers as myself were not so easily addressed by subjects."

"Keep your pet on a tighter leash." Trevelian, still smoking a cigarette, straightened in his seat.

"I was told to bring a sentient here, sir. Not a dog. Though I am told he can take the shape, if asked nicely. Care to beg, Sir Trevelian?"

Our good Lord of the Cigars did not appear to mind the retort 'You were told to bring him here. Well, Sir Hellsing, let's jump then at the heart of the problem. Not that one would ever doubt your honourable intentions – but what exactly do you have in mind for the – thing? What's the point in supporting it? Why keep him? You don't need him, surely. Unless you…_fancy_ dogs."

Various inane remarks were exchanged, and I grudgingly had to admit to defeat. Briefly, because it was largely imperative that I should find a brilliant solution to this entire mess. I could see what would happen if I didn't, I could almost hear Huyxley snorting with his mates and having a laugh as they concluded their great argument on whether impaling Alucard or plain butchering him would produce a more valuable note of entertainment. They were sharks, waiting to smell blood. If I didn't save him now, no one would.

"Because," I said, drawing in the entirety of my conviction, "whereas _I_ mightn't need him, you, gentlemen, mightn't find yourselves in the same blissful circumstances."

"Are you threatening us, Hellsing?"

"Of course _I_ am not. Neither is Alucard. But you shall all bear in mind that the clear motivation behind my father's extended studies – studies that, I am assured, the British Crown supported and encouraged – he is not a singular case. There are more of them, and not as-"

"-tame?" Suggested Bernard Hepwards, sounding mildly interested.

"Not my preferred choice of words, but something of the such. Alucard shall bring you no harm, but what of the others?"

Someone declared it sheer and utter nonsense and made to take the word, but Huyxley gave me leave. "Carry on, Hellsing."

"The possibilities to recreate the experiments and the bonding in order to assure that we secure other members of his species in a similar manner are not within my abilities to recuperate. That mastery died with my Father. For the time, we cannot as of yet establish a mean to neutralize them, when they come, and they will." I extended my series of documents – of which the Vatican ones safely masked their origin- revealing the exact nature of our situation. Some complained about the statistics. Others disagreed completely with the overview. They all concluded my handwriting was a mess.

"But we can exterminate them?" I didn't know whom had spoken. It didn't matter. They all clearly had rat infestations at home. Exterminate this, exterminate that, zap, zap!

"We, gentlemen? Need I resume this meeting for an hour at whose end I may present you with full reports of the tens and hundreds who died to bring _him_ to you? We alone may guarantee a certain rate of success."

"But I can do it faster, better, and generally livelier," interrupted Alucard, ensuring himself the sort of mesmerized attention that a late speaker – and particularly this late speaker- is both entitled to and object of.

I hadn't thought he would agree to it, had thought I would have to order him into silence while I could delay an exact stipulation. But the it was within every predator's nature to pride in its moments of triumph; and he could know triumph. "Exactly."

"This is ridiculous." Sir Alaric was outraged. "You're buying your time, you know this wasn't even in your original plans, you're just trying to-"

"No, I have my proof." I decided to raise the wagers and bluff. "I have taken the liberty to invest and found the association designed to cater for such…projects. Bearing my late father's name, if you pay such small details any mind. I was well intent on this project to begin with, sir, make no mistake of it."

"I don't believe a word you're saying. A fully functional organization? No support? No finances? No approval?"

"Am I not receiving your approval now, gentlemen?"

Huyxley was surprisingly unruffled. "Does this association truly exist, Lord-"

"Mister."

"Well does it, Mister Hellsing?"

"Yes. And I invite you all to assist in the preparations made for its first task, whenever His Majesty's men will have signalled the need for our presence."

Sir Percival was aghast. "You're serious."

"Entirely."

"All right, Mister Hellsing," said Sir Huyxley, kind Sir Huyxley, God bless you, Huyxley, you most certainly made my day, you idiotic little—and then Sir Huyxley proceeded to dig my grave. "We'll be in attendance in a week."

Oh God, what had I got myself into?!

----------

God granted Himself six days to create the world.

I was given just as many to create London's greatest institution.

Seemed reasonable enough.

I talked to Robert of whether he could handle the internal economics of such a procedure.

"Yes, but I imagine that's the most I'll be able to do for you." He was not in the least pleased by the outcome of our newest ploy, but he could not improve the situation more than I by complaining incessantly. "It'll take a lot of paperwork."

With this aspect finished, and my own involvement in assuring the legal part of it, we needed a third man to administer our registration and external affairs.

It was at this point that I fortunately prevailed in finding my good friend Lawrence in the most blissful of humours.

"Hold on, Christopher, what were you saying?" Phones were devices unintended for small, rural locations such as the one that supplied Hellsing with its territory. I could sadly find no better, and we would therefore have to pause every now and then, hoping half a sentence hadn't been lost due to the bad connection. "You want me to enlist a Hellsing institution at the Hall of Commerce? All right, I suppose, what occupation?"

This put me in a certain difficulty. "Filth disposal," said Alucard wickedly from over my shoulder. As always, he was pestering me incessantly.

"Trash disposal?" Lawrence sounded amused. "By God, I might have to come down there and see what exactly you've got yourself into, Hellsing."

"You do that. But register us first."

If there was anything that this disheartening initiative accomplished, then it was to guarantee that Alucard would be constantly engaged in one activity or the other. He did little to help, at times took greater trouble in spoiling some matters, or butchering more sheep – though he kept them out of the house, thank God- just when we had finished a counting.

However, we seemed to have created an ungodly understanding. My nightmares still were as they were, and at times unwanted memories would make themselves known at the most inopportune of times; but he himself pressured me not, and would instead divert himself with this new goal; much like a child, he was in need of attention, and there was no more spotlight he could hope for than that provided by the making of an institution designed to have him as the main attraction.

Where a few matters were easily solvable, others demanded particular straining.

Where one aspect in particular was concerned, infantry, I was to lead a fabulous play at decadence, and make a foolhardy of all my principles. Robert said I was merely doing the done thing. Fiorelli expressed his condolences to my morals, but kindly explained how in such a match, they had had no place to begin with. Alucard laughed.

I paid Sir Henry Boylen a very short visit, wherein particularly rough words and many accusations were exchanged. He was as coy and as unpleasant as always, but at least this time I countered with the aggressiveness he had always portrayed.

I shoved the documents I had been sent after he had been declared a free man in his arms, and raved as much as I could.

"Henry, what did I tell you when I agreed to take on your case? What did I tell you, Henry? Don't remember? Allow me to remind you. I told you, Henry, don't lie to me. I told you, Henry, do anything but lie to me. And what did you do? Well? You lied to me."

He wouldn't look me in the eye. "How was I to know-"

"-I'd ever find out? You wouldn't know. Can't have known. But I did find out and you mind my words, they arrested you, and I got you out." I paused briefly. "But this time, _I_ am the one putting you behind bars, and that's where you'll be staying. I know enough to do that, and you're my witness to such."

"You can't do that, that'd be- that'd breaking client confidentiality!"

Laughter. "What client, Henry? You're not my client anymore, no one is, in fact, haven't they told you? I no longer take cases, no longer am a fully active lawyer. Besides, I have no need to accomplish anything. I've my men. A carefully slipped envelope in the right mailbox, a word of caution whispered to a certain magistrate…my name needn't even be mentioned."

He looked at me curiously. "All right, Hellsing rat. All right. What do you want? Is it money?" He shrugged with what wanted itself as sheer indifference. "I have money. I have money enough to buy you, your entire family and your titles and then sell you for half a coin, _Lord _Hellsing."

"I've no doubts where that is concerned. I don't want your money."

This surprised him well enough. "Then what _do_ you want?"

"A few words whispered in the right ears."

He made for his port-cigarette, extracted a thin little piece, lit it. I coughed discretely. It appeared that there was nothing I could do to escape the damned gentry and their even more damnable smoking habits – and yet, if he took note of my discomfort, he did naught to ease it, and plainly took a few puffs. "Going to enter politics?"

"Hardly." Albeit, it was a most amusing course of thought. "Put the word out on the street for me, Henry. I've seen the sort of accomplices you appreciated. Killers or soon-to-be, the lot of them. And that's what I want. If they can slave all day for your coin, they can pull the trigger on occasion for mine. Tell them Christopher Hellsing will take anyone who has no qualms in getting a bit of blood on their hands. No questions asked on their past, no questions asked on their future. Similarly, do ensure they can be silent on the matter."

"Here's a tip for you, ratty." He offered me a cig; I declined. "You can buy a man's body, but never his loyalty."

"All I'm interested in is their aim. I don't want them to defend a holy ideal, I want them to answer to my every call. I want them to jump when I say jump, to slit each other's throat when I ask it. And I want them to do it without half of London getting a particularly gory and detailed account of it." Because, God help me, should the King come to the incriminating knowledge of half a squad parading and massacring under his name, we'd be done for.

Lord Henry, however, looked increasingly more interested. "When do you need them?"

"I thought they said you were clean these days. Are you in a position to help me?"

"Maybe I am." No true answer, that.

"In three days' pass. I've immediate need of about five-and-twenty, shall take more with time. Group them in a greater lot, though. I'll be sending someone to give them a look."

"Oh? Who?"

"His name's Alucard. You wouldn't know him."

"I'm finding that there're quite a few people I've no true notion about. Take you, Sir Hellsing." He fell silent for a moment, almost astonished. "Such an odd turn of events. Yesterday you were my devoted lawyer, and today you're acquiring yourself an army."

"Fortune can be whimsical." After all, I had never suspected the day I had made Lord Henry Boylen's acquaintance a year ago that I would end up having my services commissioned by this respectable gentleman no more than a few months later. I had the decency not to mention this notable fact, however.

"Are you, then? Getting an army?"

I laughed. "Why, Lord Henry, maybe I am."

----------

**Author's note:** Chapter's moral – if you have siblings, make sure they don't like to call your name too often. – grin- Sorry for the late update, but I've been a slight busy with the edits, so, huzzah? Must conveniently take the time to note that I might or mightn't update again til Christmas. I will be on holiday, but, on the other hand, I have other fanfic obligations to try and keep up to: an AxI fic that's slowly turning into a 10k monster, a PxS, SxAnderson, Valentine Brothers… (Christmas wishes)

As it is, next chapter shall probably concern: Iscariot visit, a more talkative and generally badass Alucard (poor baby, he gets his first kill under Hellsing banners), a wildly insane Kester and a still pie-free Robert. Oh well. If all should go as planned, four other Kester chapters til we pass on to another POV. Joy of all joys, I can almost hear you groaning.

Any a how, have a Merry Christmas. And a Happy New Year. And the best of luck.


	6. Chapter IV

**Rating: **PG-13

**Author notes: **the wonderful, wonderful and very talented **Rae00** has done me the honour of depicting a TWA scene, namely the sight of Alucard as Kester first sees him. I'd like to yet again convey my immense gratitude and all in all awe at the loveling's might. If you want to see the picture (and please do leave a comment to her if you do), just remove the extra spaces from the following and access the linkie:

http:www. deviantart. com/ deviation/ 13426391

****

**August the 14th , 1994 – **

**Present article discovered in a considerably poor state – suggested verifications ended in a clear reconstitution of the urgently required fragments from the deteriorated pages. **

**Further notes:**** Remaining pages are placed in the Hellsing library for further study. This is the only known exemplary.**

**Integral Hellsing **

Christopher Hadrian Hellsing,

On Tea and Conversations

"He looks like a pimp."

"I'm afraid I'll have to concur. That just isn't his colour."

"Mhmmm."

"Alucard, might we see you in red?"

"Quite so, and – vampire, are you trying to stake yourself?"

"Do stop. Blood stains are killers on these carpets. Besides, you look fetching in red, but this moulding suit makes you a mite too round."

"How droll - I thought black was a slimming colour?"

"Could be the heavy silver collar and matching leash."

"True. Could have done without those."

"Or perhaps it's the straps and handcuffs?"

"Definite faux pas."

"Kester, what do you think?"

"Uch…"

"Director Erlich? This is Christopher Hellsing. I do apologize for the inconvenience, but I have been told that the Academy of Medicine and Biological Studies of Vienna was last to have hosted my father, the late Abraham Hellsing

Coarse voice, anxious tone, the bearings of an honest man who's always in haste. "I know. And remember. It's why I answered your queiry last time as well. " Last time? "Abraham and I were quite close. He was an extraordinary man... such a shame… My condolences."

"Thank you, but it's not reminiscing that which I called for, sadly, but –"

"God... Is this about what happened last night? We had nothing to do it. I tell you, he'd had that pack of letters in his house for ages, he always took them with him, the Academy can't be blamed that the entire house got raided yesterday! Listen, Christopher, your father always said you were a sensible man, surely you can see how though everyone seems to think we were madly envious of his studies, we would never have gone as far as robbing a deceased's house! Besides, we mailed all his studies to you, and what could we have done with his correspondence? The papers are all just mad, mad, and there's just someone who wants to cause trouble, it's because of these latest articles we've been publishing, they all want to defame us just for daring to say the truth about certain things -"

Surprise on my part.

"I fear I've no knowledge as to what you're referring to… Actually, what I wanted was to ask that you please deliver me the results of his post-mortem examinations and all adjacent studies."

A pause.  
"How dare you?"

"Pardon?"

"How dare you! I don't know who you are, but how dare you pretend to be that poor boy? Christopher Hellsing wrote to us from Rome and asked for those files, and he had the Church's permission! Who are you? What do you want? How dare you try to pretend—oh damn you, what do you want? Are you from some journal? I tell you, the Academy had nothing to do with the theft of those letters, stop pestering us! And that man, that poor man, mocking the predicament of his son by pretending to – the press has no shame! I'll see you in court for that man's sufferance if ever shall I find who you are! You should pay, you people're of such an insolence"

I slammed the phone back on its knob most unceremoniously, ending what'd likely be a very expensive conversation to Vienna.

I had never exchanged various milieus throughout my life, but the kindest thing I could conceive to say of London's sewers was that they had fortunately not been among them. Joy of all joys, a first for everything.

I had only allowed Alucard to come with me. As a former commander of what the legends claimed to have been huge armies as well as his better realization of the vampiric nature made him indispensable; and as someone who had not even served in the army, I was at a loss when it came down to hand picking our troops.

With an hour at my disposal for such affairs – there was still my London residence to see to, as well as certain appointments with a few clients and several shady figures who'd made valiant promises of producing me the sort of weaponry and ammunition that a faction of Hellsing's magnitude must have need of. But Boleyn had orchestrated the entire display masterfully, men grouped by the dozen, coming down as others left at regular intervals. Once this was done, they all gathered down, offering us the possibility of a final look.

No words were said on what Boleyn had told them to make them come. His uneven smile spoke clearly of just promiscuous that had been. I couldn't make up my mind. They all seemed the same to me, though Boleyn often commented on this man's athletic figure, or the other's great speed. Even now he was praising his own merchandise. "Simon here, for instance, has wonderful stamina."

Alucard had been glaring at them intently, and I hoped that at least he would provide us with a suitable assortment, once all was said and done.

"What do you make of them?"

"Green boys, the entire lot. If you left them to their devices, they'd still be sucking at their mother's tits."

An insolent smile on the sun-burnt lips of a bearded fellow from the first row. "Mate, I'd suck _you_ for this pay."

Alucard grimaced dangerously. "Can't _I_ go first?" And then he moved closer…

Among his peers, the bearded man was known as "Grandpa", because he had a few white strands in spite of his young age.

They say a huge shock will transfigure one's hair from its true colour to that of the craven.

"I'll be damned," said Boleyn at my right, sardonic smile still frozen on those thin lips, as he calmly wiped off the faintest drops of blood that his nearness to the first row had inflicted on his tie. I didn't flinch as Alucard made "Grandpa" earn his name.

"Who was the man with the wonderful stamina, Lord Boleyn?" My tone was colder than I had meant it, but it seemed somehow… fitting. "He's hired as long as he can carry our gentleman here to our motor." His recklessness had insured his employment, but I doubted Grandpa could still walk on his own.

I could have told Alucard to desist as soon as the intention had taken shape, forming from his thoughts, but I didn't. Fear brings with it respect.

And they would never have respected us if I'd stopped him.

"Alucard, round up thirty of what you can make as the finest of the lot—"

"Worthless trash, all of them."

"Make do."

He laughed, "One week, and I'll have them trembling at my sight."

"Look around you, ser. It only took those twenty-one seconds." Boleyn chuckled lowly, and then signalled for me to join him outside, in the open air, where I could finally put my lungs to their intended use. Too much dust, dirt. I hadn't even apprehended their true toll on me during my stay, but there was this difference that had suddenly made itself apparent.

"So, Hellsing… what is this all about?"

"Nothing, really. Just seeing to the British unemployment issue. How kind of me, wouldn't you say?"

"Thirty men. Isn't that a bit too much?"

"Don't worry, I have sufficient train tickets." I was pressing them in his hands far before he could even say he had no need to see them. "That was never called into question."

"Oh good." I snatched them back, and then corrected the line of my tie and collar with the sort of dedication that might have implied my life pretty much depended on the action. "After all, Lord Boleyn, I wouldn't want to think you were meddling in my innocent affairs."

"Innocent? I'd be a sucker to fall for that."

"Exactly. And we Hellsings don't take to _suckers_ all that well."

"Alucard?"

"Masssssterrr?"

"Never try my patience in this way again."

"Or else?"

"Gwendolyn writes that she'll arrive in four days' time. Lance's apparently been a mite under the weather, and then my father also had to dispose of the governess because she was making a fuss over the boy."

"Uncle Thomas is coming?"

Robert toyed with a cigarette before lighting it. "I don't know. He knows he's best not welcome here, now doesn't he?"

"He can rest here for a few days, if such is his liking," I said slowly, though I supposed he could see reasonably well as to the truth of my enthusiasm.

"Well, we'll see on Friday."

"More Hellsings? Heh. You breed like rabbits don't you? Humpitty-humpy-hump, all day long."

To Alucard, I had made quite an adequate proposal: he was to come and go as he pleased through the entire estate, but was not to make his presence known when endeavouring in any dubious activities, nor was he to slay the animals. This proved to be a mutually satisfactory engagement, because just as he was spared Brother Fiorelli's painful ministrations, so was I the guilt of keeping him locked up constantly. I had left unsaid that Fiorelli himself was beginning to have an increasingly difficult time restraining him with each passing day. I left it unsaid, because he never asked.

My cousin, however, was not as delighted by his sudden materialization in Papa's – _my_- study. "Have I told you how they first taught me to take aim and then shoot a man in the head when I was of age?"

"Have I told you how I had already impaled my first dozen when I was of age?"

"Alucard, please."

"I'm not your dog, pathetic corpse."

Robert snorted. "Would've been the family's overachiever had you been a dog, surely."

"Enough. It's gratifying to hear that Gwendolyn shall soon grace us with her presence." Although, it was far more within my inquisitive nature to wonder as to how exactly little Lance had turned out. Was he Robert's faithful replica, another memory from a not so distant past? Or maybe he was more like his mother ,with the Welsh blue-blue eyes and the lopsided smile? My one fear I dared not voice.

Alucard gave me a knowledgeable look, and though warned, I could still barely perceive the tendrils of his mental form, probing through my mind. I tried to give the matter no further thought – but what if Lance _did_ resemble Arthur?

"Robert…? Why did you come here? Of course yours is the most accommodating and comforting of the presences I've had to endure, and of course I shall never be able to repay you your devotion and your kindness. But I never wrote to you. I never asked you to come after Papa died, and yet you did. Why?" Had it just been for the Archbishop's letter? I doubted it.

"I…well, you were alone, for a start."

"I've always been alone." That wouldn't do it. And he knew it wouldn't do, so he said, slowly, "And then Father told me I was to come."

The thought of Uncle Thomas being preoccupied over my welfare was mildly unsettling. "Because I was alone?"

"Yes. He didn't think you could handle things as they were. He said I should take care of you and the estate. He didn't want you to sell it. Grandfather was overly fond of it, and apparently so was my Father, and so when Uncle Abraham left if completely unsupervised, and when they were still not allowed to visit…" Why? Well, it can't have been solely for my account. There'd been a great drift between my father and the his brother and his own father for as long as I could remember, but I had never thought their little wars could have taken such magnitude.

"But why listen to Uncle Thomas?" After all, Robert and he had never been too close, especially not after my cousin had relocated his interest from the medical benches to economy. And yet here Uncle Thomas was, accompanying his wife, in constant vigilance over his one son and heir.

"He's my father, Kester. And at one point in his life, he acted like a father should. And I will never forget that."

Robert may have had many failings, but he was as loyal as a dog.

I could almost hear Alucard's smooth laughter, his manipulation of this link so explosively formed between us. _Dogs bite the hand that feeds them, or didn't you know?_

_It won't hurt. Nothing can hurt you now. Nothing can hurt either of us now. Why won't you try it? Chris?_

"Kester, my bad on interrupting your lunch, bu- Kester! Oh God, you bastard, what have you done?"

_It won't hurt…_

"Kester? Kester? Move! Cadwell! Say something – say—Cadwell! Nod your head if you can hear me— CADWELL!"

"Was just…doesn't…"

"CADWELL! COOK! Kester, Kester keep your eyes open—oh God, what have you done!"

_Nothing can hurt you now…_

"Sir, I heard you-I'll ring Doctor Lewis!"

"Elliott, yes, call Lewis! Kester, don't worry, it'll be all right, it'll be all right… Hurry, man, call anyone!"

"Gracious, my lord! I'll bring warm towels."

"Kester, speak to me, don't close your eyes, just don't.. he's bleeding so badly, Cadwell, hurry up with those towels!"

"Here, sir."

"Kester, put your hand here, put it – wrap it around the other one – Kester, you fool!"

"Was…just…I…it doesn't…hurt…was just…playing…"

_Nothing can hurt either of us now…_

"Ach!"

"Cook, stop screaming! Bring warm towels!"

"Oh God, sir, is he-"

_Why won't you try it?_

"I don't know! Kester, don't fall close your eyes, don't! Stop crying, woman, stop crying and help me! No, get that child away!"

"Tim, see yourself out!"

"But, gran, he… the young master, he…he cut his wrists…"

_Chris?_

"Christopher, your medicine."

I inclined my head wearily, though the pain summoned by even such a simple gesture discouraged me into no further attempts. Doctor Lewis brought the glass to my lips, and I drank the thing greedily. I was certain I had grown feverish. The inside of my mouth was burning, and my tongue would click irritatingly, sticky and heavy, and I couldn't speak.

Doctor Lewis placed the glasses on my nose, and I could see again. I would have wanted to ask whether I would unfortunately have to retain them, but I couldn't. He offered the answer all the same. "Your vision was impaired, as was generally all sensorial activity. It'll take some time to recover fully."

The liquid was soft along my throat. I had thought it would scratch and tear at it with its coldness. Doctor Lewis appeared perfectly in awe at my small smile. "I fail to see the amusement in your circumstances."

"Forgive me." My voice was so rough and unsteady, so hoarse. I barely recognized it. He was old, but not senile, and what intellectual decrepitude would one day conquer his senses had yet to make their claim. He said nothing. "Forgive me," I said again, and this time my voice sounded a slight more like mine own. "I did not mean for this to happen."

"Really. What did you mean to happen, then?"

"I don't know." I signalled that I was done drinking, and he casually took the glass away. He was remarkably patient. "Try to figure things out. What were you doing?"

"I…don't know."

My hands were all wrapped up, from where the palm first met the joint of my fingers and to my elbows. The wrists themselves were encircled tightly with what I could only suspect to be a very light alloy. "We couldn't chance your trying it again," Lewis explained tentatively, and I nodded.

I couldn't move my hands, and the burn in them was fierce. "I was having lunch. Lamb." Shrill laughter. "I loathe lamb. And the knife…it was just…there."

I couldn't explain. Deep down, it all made sense. Admittedly, now not as much as then, but it made sense, and it had been so natural to pick it up and shred at pale skin, skin that had deserted my limbs so good-naturedly. "The knife was just there…"

My study's balcony had perhaps the most luxurious opening to the fields, which at sundown were at their finest. I should have wanted to ride, for this was one of the occasions when the tenants were assured to be otherwise preoccupied and not within sight. John Elliott's cousin was to be wed, and in small communities, such events were not taken lightly. But my health had saved me the attendance to the event, but sadly also all equestrian undertakings. I had been far too tired as of late, and I dreaded to think what kind doctor Lewis would make of my ignominious treatment of his request to please rest.

"He's beautiful," I said calmly, in an acknowledgment to Brother Fiorelli, who had snuck up behind me. Either he was suppressing surprise at my "discovery" of his whereabouts, or he was simply as caught by the view as I was, because he waited before replying. "Yes. That he is."

Alucard too had probably learned of the event, for he was near the border to the forest, having taken a canine form of suitable dimensions. A large black hound slicing and shredding a helpless sheep that he had not had the mercy to kill just yet. It was crying in pain, the white of its fleece covered in her just as shiny blood, eaten, controlled by the red. Alucard was a glorious predator. However cruel his gestures, I couldn't take my eyes off him.

"What can I do for you, Brother?"

Fiorelli joined me at my right, and at first said nothing. His face was drained, the jaw line tensed. And then he gave me that big and disarming smile, and the mask was back on. "More of what I can do for you, really. My superiors write that Father Kinsella's confirmed that he'll see you in two days."

Ah. So that was that. I was sure some form of thanks were in order – but his presence tired me. Best to keep my silence. He, however, wouldn't. "I had thought you had an agreement? He did not kill the animals, but was left to roam freely?"

I nodded. "We did, and still do."

"Forgive me, but that's a sheep." How demonstrative of the Brother's talents. Alas, he had the discerning abilities of a three year-old! Soon enough, he'd be capable of coherent speech. Well, best not hope.

"Yes. But not one of ours. It belongs – rather, belonged- to the Clavells. He brought it back here, back to his territory. By tomorrow, we'll probably hear the wolves have moved to the north."

Religion had always played a menial part in my life, more a fleeting disposition than an attitude in itself, and I admitted I could be easily accused of a fondness for Gnosticism that chose to express itself quite often. The idealistic nature of the Maker's existence was one I could condone so far as it was associated with an element in which I had the deepest faith, the sheer goodness existent in all human beings, when left unprovoked.

Feeding Alucard had been…disturbing.

He had never talked to me before. Addressed me, yes. Ordered me, insulted me, demanded things of me. But never _talked_ to me .

"God? Where is your God?" He'd twisted his fingers around my wrist, hardly complimenting the swelling formed over the cuts that were never given the time to heal. Blood had come, dark and thick, but he had fed already, and for all its appeal, it had not been his intention to do so again. Instead, he had waved a hand over it, pressing it on white skin. Like mud on pure snow.

"Here is mine, but yours? I see nothing of Him here. You're going to die." Said simply, clinically. He hadn't even meant to offend me. "You're going to die, and He's not here for you. Where's your God, Hellsing? You show Him to me."

I had withdrawn to my chambers with the simple objective of catching a good night's sleep.

But as I reached my room, stepped right in, I realized that this would hardly be a possibility. I didn't recall calling for Cadwell, though I must have done so, he was there instantly.

"Mister Hellsing, I do swear, I don't know how this could have happened – no one came in, I – I , well, do please wait only a moment while I'll deposit these on your desk, oh, all your letters… it might have been the wind, there's a window open, I do apologize in the name of the staff, and—"

The floor of my room was filled with the perfumed sheet of aristocratic correspondence. Everywhere, sheets and enveloped, on my desk, near the fireplace, as if someone had gone to great pains to make such chaos.

"These aren't my letters." I produced one envelope dated clearly. All of them addressed to my father, my mother's signature on each, and near her own that of the ward from the mental asylum. "Leave me," I said, with a calm I could barely recognize in myself.

Cadwell seemed reluctant to do so. "Mister Hellsing, are you quite all ri-"

"Leave me."

He closed the door behind him discreetly.

_Arthur came to me in my dreams. He was as lively as you have never been. And he said to me, "Mama, avenge me." That's why I tried to kill him, Abraham. Arthur asked me to do it. And I wanted to do it. And I will. I'll kill your precious boy, Abraham. I swear it. I swear it. _

_Abraham, kill him. Spare me this sufferance of knowing what he did! He's not my son! Can't be my son! Christopher, he illegible him… Arthur, illegible ! His own brother. Kill him. Do it for me. I can't bear the thought of him alive now that Arthur…_

_They've put me on medication, and it's horrid, though all is far quieter now. I've not dreamt of Arthur for days. I want Arthur, I miss him so. Why did you do it? It's all your fault. They tell me I should forgive you, Abraham, and if not you, then the flesh of my flesh. But I can't. You both did it, you're both to be blamed. I could never forgive you. I want to dream of Arthur again… _

_Abraham, I can think clearly now, I swear I can, please let me return. I promise I'll leave him alone, I'll leave Christopher alone, I won't try to make him pay, God will see for that to me. God will punish him, I shan't take part in it. Let me come back. Please _

Fragments of letters, of which only the first had been opened. My father had not even bothered himself with the great majority of Mama's delusions. Mama who… My Mama who…

I collected them all, made the proper arrangements in the fireplace. The flames tore at the paper I threw in it with unmatched greed. Nay, one that did indeed have a rival, though only in Alucard's hunger for my blood. The letters died of fire, one by one by one.

I tried desperately not to think of my own mother, who for some reason had tried to kill me. Questions. I had questions, and I took a few letters with me, intent on taking them to Robert and –

"Aaaaaah…!"

More screams.

An orgy of malign sensations played out through pants and shrieks and horror.

From _his_ room.

I let the letters be and ran as fast as my feet could carry me.

Robert was already there and so was Fiorelli, and for a moment I thought they were by themselves. But then I saw the walls, and the shadows upon them, as they slithered and came together, red eyes emerging from the most unlikely of corners. The darkness was stretching.

"He's restless again. I'm sorry. I usually tire him during the night. Get out of here, the both of you," Fiorelli hissed menacingly, his eyes never turning to us, but instead always following the shadows as they leapt from one side of the room to the other. "Get out of here!"

"You won't manage by yourself," I told him weakly, but he laughed. "I've done so before. The most anyone's lasted, months locked up with him."

Robert tried to open the door, but it was suddenly blasted closed, darkness keeping it so. He gave up almost instantly. "He wants us here."

"Yes," muttered Fiorelli, crouching in a nearly feline pose. His hands sunk in the interior of his long robes, revealing a set of what I estimated as a dozen silver cylinders. Japanese hair pins were he closest design I could match to their shape. "Of course he does, he likes an audience. Overkills, they call them. He favours them well."

I was appalled. "What do you plan to do with those things? For God's sake!" He had jumped an Alucard, rather, on that thing that Alucard had become. Fiorelli looked far more the madman, the glint of the white of his eyes almost as vivid as that of the pins. He pushed one in a tentacle, but Alucard retreated it. Blood stood where darkness had been. "What do you think I plan to do to them? To him?"

Alucard's tentacles, for now they were far more numerous, sprouted almost immediately from the wall, tying themselves to Fiorelli's wrists, drawing the priest closer. Robert pushed me away before a similar movement could be done to us. I fell on my knees, hands slinking in the flooring. "Robert…"

But he had noticed as well. The flooring itself was now covered in this chaotic slime, and it felt as if we were slipping through it. More appendages swam around us, caught Robert by his feet, myself by the waist. Fiorelli spared me a glance, and then his free hand threw a pin. Caught and held. He arranged the others in an odd symmetry, a pin between each finger, supported by the joint where finger met hand, kicked Alucard as hard as he could to buy himself the time for such an action. The vampire's tentacles had wrapped him up fiercely, but for all his frowns, Fiorelli seemed utterly blasé by the ordeal.

The unexpected pressure over my stern reminded me of what I was to do. The pin I had caught was too sharp and too white, but I had no choice. Robert fell down as well, as Alucard's familiars pushed him over, strapping his feet together. He couldn't move, but I could.

"F-forgive me." I stabbed the blessed pin in the tentacle. Alucard gave off a strangled cry, more of surprise, I assumed, than actual pain. I crawled away, the slime so sticky and wrapping itself to my hands, although it cleared up auspiciously whenever I tried to support myself with the silver item.

Robert thrashed about violently. Fiorelli kicked at Alucard's shadows, doing a mid-air roundabout – where he had the space to do that, I couldn't tell, it didn't matter, oh God. I freed Robert. Again, I didn't know how, but I did it, and I was shaking, because Fiorelli had caught Alucard again, inserting one pin in his shallow frame after the other. "Robert, we can't let him do this!"

"For once, " said my cousin sternly, "I agree. We can't let your vampire do as he pleases. Order him still."

"I will not order! I will not lower myself and-"

"Would you rather lower yourself three feet under?" Robert was shouting, and yet I could not see him. My eyes were always on Alucard, so miserable as Fiorelli secluded him down, so abominably helpless. I had seen the most beautiful of mares shot once, for it had grown untouchable due to her hatred of those who had taken away her stillborn. I had thought it the cruellest thing, then, to destroy such a being.

But I now saw that it was even worse to break its spirit.

"Gah!" Fiorelli rolled over, his left cheek slashed from the ear and down to the corner of his mouth. There was so much blood over his face, it was hideous to me but so tempting to Alucard. A tentacle extricated itself from the dark mass, following the line of the brother's face, sinking in the newly made wound.

Robert was shaking me. "Just order him! ORDER HIM!" Alucard's one red eye was hypnotic. I couldn't look away from him, from what he was doing, draining Fiorelli.

I had to do it. But I …I couldn't…couldn't… This went against everything I had learned, everything I had fought against, everything I was…I couldn't order another being, I couldn't master it. To spawn a child, to raise it – now this was responsibility, yet even this to a smaller extent. A child's conduct could be adjusted. A child's cruelty could wane. A child had own free will and spirit. A child…

A child was not what Alucard was. He was not my child. He was more than my equal. He – I was…

" Mas…ter…?" The red eye followed me, my every movement.

"Alucard," I began hesitantly, but already his entire form had tensed with predatory delight, "I or—"

"The same hells you came from should have you back anew!" A moment of distraction was all it had taken Fiorelli, and now he was back on him, pins safely directed towards the other's throat. Alucard ceased his struggle. All rational thought left me, and I realized slowly, that the fever in the back of my mind did so as well. He was no longer conscious. "He is not yet healed," the brother said impassively, and then to me, with something almost like resent, "But you said you'd put things right…"

I had no true answer for him. "I said many things."

"Do you know him?"

Peering at the card intently.

"Yes, I believe I do. Different circles, he and I, but we've seen eye to eye every now and then. Why?"

"Lawrence'll be handling the Hellsing finances from now on."

"I beg your pardon? And what am I to do? How could you even think of "

"At ease, Robb. Whereas finances and sleight-of-hands , or, rather, sleight-of-numbers is something reasonably cold and unspecific, there is only one person I can entrust with our administrative tasks, however disgusting they'll prove to be early on. Don't expect to be done any kindness or honour, really."

"I can handle everything. But, then… well… I had supposed you would be the one to take these responsibilities, seeing as they are more suitable for the Hellsing commander."

"Exactly.

We're associates in this, partners of equal standing. You see to all the earthly details, I'll be mindful of the supernatural. There'll really be far too much work in founding such an enterprise for one person to undertake…"

"So what's left to do?"

"What isn't? I've arranged for men, though they're not likely to come in adequate numbers, and, God, what're we to see to their wages with? The Hellsing Estate could support its own expenses and even provide a sizeable profit as far as sustaining a family was concerned. I'm however afraid that, unless we can snap our fingers and perform some bureaucratic wonder, we'll be unable to see the project to a lengthened existence. Unless the Crown decides to finance us, of course…"

"With Huyxley in charge? Small chances."

"Huyxley's not the problem here. He's an odd sort, I'll admit, but I think we can make him see reason."

"What an awful character."

"Was, wasn't he?"

"Mmmm."

They had prepared me for me a difficult encounter with a man bred to feed on deception, and I was myself a bit anxious at the thought. Even my small experience with the Iscariot association through Brother Fiorelli had readied me for a shady individual willing to sell his soul in the prettiest cover of vice and instability. But Father Kinsella was perhaps the most open and brutally sincere individual I had ever come upon. Or so he appeared to be.

We met outside of London, where he indicated that we should follow him. We'd both come by motor. After half an hour of circling Westminster, I began to wonder whether he would take me to some awfully shady place, like a tavern, or some smuggler's lair. Somewhere excitingand_ ominous._.

…Well, he did.

The waiter that welcomed us to what was very much a respectable and central restaurant looked _very_ ominous. "Your table was prepared, Your Eminence, and I assume the usual shall be served?"

As I later found out, the usual was a very potent, highly illegal, but not at all unpleasant bottle of absinthe.

Two gentlemen had followed us as we had walked down the street; now, they had entered and ordered a table not too far away, and kept peering in a disgracefully evident manner.

"I thought you might enjoy their salads," Father Kinsella said as we were seated, with only the shadow of an accent to his words.

"Ah yes, carrots and vampires, my favourite." I leant and pretended to kiss the rings on his fingers in pious awe. "I'm afraid you're being followed," I informed him, casually.

Father Kinsella laughed. "Oh no, we escaped mine at the last turn, these ones are here for you. But don't worry, I somehow doubt henchmen are educated in the Dead tongues, and so this'll likely suffice as an additional mean of protection," he said gaily, slipping from Latin to English every other word.

From Latin to English, confident of my understanding, and he a man whom I had never met. True, my work did imply a certain knowledge in the field, but seldom was Latin still required when actively professing, and it would have been absurd to expect that a conversational Latin will still have been remembered. That I myself had maintained it was a wonder partly owed to my intense studies of old Orators. But Kinsella can't have known that. The only one who could have known was…

…Fiorelli. Fiorelli, whose letters we had read line by line. Fiorelli, whom Robert and I had thought a perfect fool for still practising in a language he new clearly I could comprehend.

"That too was an additional mean of precaution," I told him in a tentative combination of the two tongues, wondering whether he would catch my meaning. He did.

"Well of course it was, Mister Hellsing. I assure you we would have done the same, we did, in fact, for you might have noticed we never gave either a definite address nor signed ourselves with our true name. One can never be too careful, and I am told you had particular reasons to fear."

"Yes. A Brother Cesare –"

"—who is now with our Lord in Heaven, I presume, facing His judgment. A misunderstanding, Mister Hellsing, one which I am confident we both regret." I gave the waiter that delivered his cake and my tea a careful look. He'd picked up the order from our followers' table only just before coming here. Father Kinsella tasted his brownie, I drank some of my Earl, and we both glares at the boy until he finally decided we were either mute or starved, and let us be.

"You've Father Cesare and not us to regret only for of Brother Fiorelli's timely intervention."

It took skill to catch the shadow of a frown on his face, for it went just as it had come, in an instant; but I had not been schooled in trying to estimate the character of my clients so to not pay mind to subtleties. "Fiorelli?"

"Yes. Tomaso Fiorelli. I should think you know of him?"

"I- yes. Well then. Fiorelli. This was certainly… unexpected." His earlier statements came to mind, the absence of a name might have been the cause for his ignorance. And yet to entrust what seemed to be ever so valuable to them, the care of a vampire and his tutors, to an unknown?

"How so?" My tea had cooled and was now almost undrinkable, though I decided against attracting the waiter's unwanted attention a second time and resigned myself to death by intoxication.

"I don't assign our operatives, Mister Hellsing. These are orders that come from Rome, orders that are meant for the men of Rome alone to ponder, and orders that our ours to follow." He'd slipped up with that moment of hesitation and was now doing his finest to make amends. "I simply hadn't thought they'd send Fiorelli, of all people."

"Mister Hellsing," continued Father Kinsella soon after, "we're your friends. In fact, these days, I can safely attest to that we're likely to be your only friends. Trust us, Mister Hellsing. We trusted and _still_ trust you. Brother Fiorelli is an excellent linguist, and I myself will confess to a modest, but all in all sufficient handle over Persian, as well as extended knowledge in Greek. Had we wanted to keep our secrecy, we could have in a language that you would not have found accessible in the least. But there was no reason to such a thing. We have nothing to hide. As I've said already, we're your faithful friends."

Except, Fiorelli had never in his letters reported my affinity for Latin.

Somehow, they had maintained contact, making their letters no more than a formality that I was meant to toy with whilst supposedly assured I had the upper hand.

If the Iscariots were my faithful little friends, I truly didn't want to chance upon my unfaithful enemies. I decided, however, to make no note of this matter and instead questioned him on something closer to my area of direct interest.

"I have received your reports. How gracious of the Vatican to provide them, needless to say. Am I to understand vampirical actions have been noted in England?"

"Ah, you're entirely welcome. Congratulations on your enterprise, Mister Hellsing. And yes. Hampshire, Norfolk, _Gower_…"

"Gower?" That close to home?

"Yes. But don't concern yourself with that. England's always been fertile territory as far as vampires are considered, though at least now we can tell what they're after."

This implication of my involvement was thinly veiled, but I supposed that I had agreed to take a part in this the moment I had collected Alucard. Or hadn't I? What had I wanted with Alucard? Heh. To help him. But so many things had happened since… "What are they after?"

"Your vampire."

The absinthe burned down my throat. But the tea wouldn't help. "_My_ vampire, ser?"

"_The_ vampire, then. The true vampire, Nosferatu, what have you."

"I see. What exactly would be so special about him now?"

"His blood. Your blood. Hellsing blood that a true vampire has tasted and now has running in his veins." His eyes came to slits, and for the first time that half smile looked entirely too menacing. "Now that…is a thing of beauty."

"How so? What could make our blood so remarkable?"

"I don't know."

I waited for him to continue, but it took him a while to realize I had nothing worthwhile to say and was expecting him to dazzle me further. "There's something, but I don't know what it is. I was hoping you could reveal anything of importance on the subject."

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't believe that."

"Your right given to you by King and country, to be sure." But he wouldn't say anything else.

This vexed me. "Then let's speak of something you do know, eh?"

"Do let's."

"Father, I have conversed with the academy of Vienna, only to be informed that all medical records, including the studies on the time and condition of his death were taken to Rome. They're with your people, of this I've no doubt. I would like to have them by the end of the week."

He had not expected this. " Yes, they do rest with us, but…I'm afraid it was a heart attack, Mister Hellsing. There's rarely anything of notable interest to account for these, not even when it comes to the most exigent of medics. There's nothing to see."

"We had the body at such a time and degree of discomposure, that an autopsy could reveal nothing. I would dither from thinking it a deliberate error on the Vatican's part. Surely, you had only the best intentions at heart."

"Surely," he echoed dryly.

"Then I'll have my papers within the week." I smiled thinly. "And do make sure it's not a Christopher Hellsing from Rome sending them to a Christopher Hellsing in London."

"Heh. Our apologies "

I waved him off. "—are not accepted. Get me those files."

"Mister Hellsing? A trifle, really, though I thought you might wish to know, for all it's worth."

"Please, Mister Cadwell."

"Andrew, come here. Sir, I think the boy might have been in your room last night. The maid found something of his in the fireplace this morning."

"Sir, I didn't do nothing, sir—"

"Do please shut up."

A coin placed in my hand.

" She claimed it to be his, because it's in a very poor state, and that's the only sort of coins he's given to play with, for they're no good to buy anything with."

A coin given.

And now returned.

My studies became an unrivalled priority; I had books sent from Cambridge, pulled a certain few strings to obtain the shortest glance on original manuscripts.

When I felt decently prepared, I went to him. He was still in his quarters, still in his circle, looking as miserable as he had back in London.

I called out for him. I said his name – his trueborn name- so many times that it was no longer a question of wanting to have him pay me any mind. I whispered it, shouted it, alternated.

Names give one power over those who bear them, or so the word went. The response I extricated, however, was so much more than I had imagined it would be.

"Don't," he demurred, slowly.

I said it again. He came to his feet, arms crossed on his chest, the bellicose look of kings not yet vanquished playing in the eyes of a creature in chains. "Don't."

A final summon. I waited.

He tsked unpleasantly, fingers slowly abandoning their posture, supporting to the wall. "What do you want?"

"I've one of your belongings." The coin, I produced instantly.

Alucard gazed at it unmoved. "A reminder."

"Then keep it." If such was his game, then damn him, I would play it. These endless matches at a pride that hadn't its place were unbecoming. We were two adults – rather, he had lived the life of many adults – in extraordinary circumstances, but we had to see this through. "To remind you of the one defeat that it took and the one who brought it."

He made to claw at my eyes, but I backed away, thanking the bounds that Fiorelli had placed upon him, for they alone edged his speed. "I could kill you here and—"

"No, you couldn't." Enough of this! "Hellsing blood. Hellsing magic. And the oath that binds them. You cannot end my life unless such is my desire, and as you may clearly observe, I have no ambition to treat with the true Lord Charon, however charming his occupation."

"Defeat? At those filthy hands?" He had meant it as spit, but the trickle of blood dispersed on the floor. "Luck, exhaustion, arrogance – my failings, my undoing, not his victory! Never _that_! He won _nothing_ that day!"

"But you lost everything." A self-explainable conclusion.

"I hated him!"

"He had no love for you either, assuredly."

"I hated those hands." He slowly let himself fall to the ground, ending on his knees, as if a man in pagan prayer. "They had still mud when they touched me. Blood too. But there was far too much mud, he was dirty, dirty, DIRTY. A peasant! A useless peasant, a madman! What did he do? What did he succeed? He was nothing." _Don't. Don't say that, because I shan't be able to control myself, don't say a word about him, don't"_You are nothing, scum. Both of you _scum_."

I slapped him with the back of my hand, cold silver touching pale flesh. His head slammed to the right – and then the left as I repeated the gesture.

"I _am_ still _Master_! I shall not issue commands, for it should be within human ability to enslave another – but you will not make a mockery of my father, you will not taint the name of this house, you will "

I realized that, while my first blow must have taken him by surprise, it has still left him unaffected. A vampire's force against human frailty, of course he wouldn't feel the touch.

"_Obedire__ est vivere_."

"_Vivere__ est obedire_."

He laughed bitterly.

"Keep it, Hellsing."

"Why?"  
"It's served its purpose." And then softly, mockingly, "Master."

"KESTER! KESTER!"

"I think he's heard you already?"

"KESTER!"

Robert was thundering up the stairs, a meek little voice forming lustful sighs, probably after the good old times when its owner had still benefited from an undamaged hearing. I tried to hurry things, but found my companion very reluctant to do so – before I even had a chance to push him off, the door had been slammed aside, Robert was cackling, and the reddest hair ever known to man could be seen with ease. Lawrence was stormed through, "Christopher, gods, to have to come to this backwater place, with your babbling about _vampires_, and then I get these letters from Canterbury claiming there _are_ vampires, and I swear everyone's off their cake! And—"

He stopped halfway.

"C-Ch-Christopher! I- that- beg pa- God – that is- Christopher!" Lawrence was the very image of aristocratic indignation: pale, speechless, and ogling.

Then again, I assumed we were giving him quite the rare sight. I had only just begun buttoning my shirt, chest and abdomen still considerably exposed, for all the straps and plasters encasing my ribs. But far more worth the stare was Alucard, knelt in front of me, licking my wrist, having by now savaged through all the blood and only drinking in the smell of it where it had once been. He was dishevelled; I was still flushed and panting from my fights with him.

We both somehow patiently managed to go on with our activities, while Robert sniggered most ungraciously, and Lawrence struggled for coherence. "Christopher," he said slowly, "forgive me, that was uncalled for. I had never known you were…well…like that. But, uch, I've no right to judge you, and if it makes you happy – gods, so few things do, don't they- but just make sure word doesn't go out, you know what they do to- anyway, I want you to know you can always—Gods, Chris, you bloody queer!"

By now Robert was roaring with laughter, whilst I was praying to some god or the other for the earth to open up and swallow me. Alucard just fed on serenely.

"It's nothing of the sort," my cousin explained at last, "that's just Alucard's taking his tea. Kester, just make sure he doesn't touch your…sugar lumps?" More laughter. Sick. The man was plain sick. And a pervert, to top it all up – and he was speaking again, "Besides, it wouldn't matter, even if it was. Alucard's genderless."

If the revelation of my supposed homosexuality had nearly put Lawrence in an early grave, this last could easily have accounted for the world's fastest revival. "He's what?"

Robert shrugged. "Genderless."

"As in… Chris, do you mean to tell me he has a… waist " Lawrence vaguely motioned to his own, gruesome mental images now abounding on my part. "—as well as a…uch…a waste?"

I rose a hand, calling for silence and trying to muster as much dignity as possible in a man whose arm had probably been decreed a national blood pump and nourishment free-for-all by an insatiable vampire. "Don't drag me into this conversation."

"He's not a hermaphrodite, Lawrence. He can merely change his shape to his liking."

Alucard's sole intervention was a muffled "Hmmmmph." Damn him. I tried to slap his head off, but he'd sunk quite deep in.

Lawrence was thrilled. "So he's a man and a woman?"

Oh no. Robert's eyes were suddenly glinting with devious delight. I was doomed. "Yes, a man and a woman. Except when Kester's very nice to him, and he's a dog."

Pause. Awe. More staring.

"Christopher," said Lawrence, finally, and in all seriousness, "I'm your friend and all the such, but if you ever want to confide about your tangents with bestiality…just…don't ring me up. Really. I shan't mind. Not in the least. Just imagine I've no telephone – or address to write that – in fact, better yet, whenever you're boinking some desolate poodle, just imagine I'm dead."

Alucard let go of my hand with a decisive "Slurp" that could be ever so easily mistaken for a chuckle.

What I would never understand was how two individuals so outwardly alike, both physically and even in their general conduct could prove to be so disquieted when in each other's company. They were both slightly effeminate as far as looks were concerned, lacking in muscles what they made for in full lips and delicate features. Lawrence was haughty of manner whenever given the occasion, but just as easily charming and far too talkative. Fiorelli was …well… Fiorelli.

But to say that they hadn't hit it on was to be of an unrivalled optimism.

"I know you," Lawrence stated stubbornly moments after I had introduced them. Kind Cadwell was pouring us tea and even serving a few cookies to go with it. I couldn't remember when I'd last been this hungry, but then I also couldn't remember when I'd last had a bite. Robert's mouth was full with what I calculated to be roughly three slices of pumpkin pies. Fiorelli was plainly drinking the content of his cup – a strong brew of coffee and caramel. "Do you?"

"Yes…though I don't quite remember where from…"

"Rome? Orphanages? Monasteries? Church?" The priest settled better on the couch, his foot moving up and down, up and down, as if in hurry. ""You _do_ look such a devout man yourself."

"Perfectly true, Brother, and yet—"

"I don't remember you, sir. And I never forget. Do excuse me, now. I'm sure Castor's informed you of the nature of my responsibilities, so you'll understand why it's best that I stick around Alucard," fiorelli said stiffly, and then he was up and had left before I could even utter a word to detain him, or at least a farewell.

Robert looked up as the door was shut. "When did Fiorelli grow a spine?"

This, I couldn't answer. Nor exactly could I account for the Brother's sudden disinterest in our devices, when he was usually so intrigued by whatever our plans, seldom abstaining from voicing his desire to participate. If anything, he did his job as a spy astonishingly badly, because while we rarely understood what his plans were, his subtlety was deficient. "You've met him before?"

"I don't know. I could swear that face's strikingly familiar, but I just can't place it. Then again, it sometimes feels like I've met half a London _and_ the step sons of their thrice denied cousins." Lawrence tasted his tea moodily, and when he looked to me again, he was smiling. "Now, tell me all about what you've been doing with this fabulous estate of yours."

Accustoming Alucard to Lawrence was one aspect of my associate's visit that I had not been offered the chance to consider en detaille. But my former colleague surprised me with a very tolerant view on the paranormal that I would never have suspected in a man bred and wed to mathematical precision.

In fact, he was the closest Alucard had ever come to finding almost tolerable, though more often than not, this understanding came at my expense.

The vampire was expressing an unusual interest in a matter I had almost forgotten: my mistress, that apparently, or so Lawrence had it, had been pining for me ever since my hasty departure. "How's this different from keeping a whore?"

Lawrence, inbred cynic when it came to the finer gender, was quick to play at his comment. "Hmmm, not by much, I assume, although…although it's more of a gentlemanly exploit, and it does insure a certain amount of discretion."

"Besides," I drawled, "we can't all have three wives."

"Oh?" Alucard seemed to consider. "But what if they're only alive in shifts?"

I made a mental note to one day educate him on the legal implications of polygamy, but then decided to put his attention at better use, and quickly led Lawrence in a small visit to our modified stables. The project itself had been suitably costly – a matter which he was quick to note upon—but as I had only kept a small selection of horses and had found such a room necessary, no further words were said on why exactly we now had a training chamber.

Only eight men were now playing with their toys – hunting riffles, or old versions of pistols were all we had until the arrival of our new equipment - but our chamber could easily accommodate five more.

"Impressive," Lawrence declared, as all our employees ended an awkward imitation of a salute. For all our mutual discontent with the other's manner of dealing with things, Boleyn had been obliging and also offered us the services of a former soldier at a realistic price; it was this man that had instructed the London leeches in the basics of discipline.

"More or less. Robert's been giving a hand as well."

Lawrence measured my cousin, from the cleanly shaven face, to the unworked hands and the fine stance of a man accustomed to keep his head high rather than take orders. "I wouldn't have thought you the military sort."

"I'm not, but – Sanders, your gun, if you will- I was taught a decent bit of marksmanship early on." The named offered his weapon, not without resent. These men had had nothing until we had come, picked them, washed them, gave them clothing. Fed them. We always fed them, and we made sure they realized fully well just where this nourishment came from, how undemanding it would be for it to disappear. To take away the symbols of that which we'd made them was to little but deny that they had been freed of their misery for the slightest moment.

"My thanks," Robert said, then walked closer to the poles lined in the central-southern region, where a few targets had been improvised, painted on either marks themselves, upturned tables, even small bags of hey. He took aim to the nearest one – flicked the trigger – pulled the switch. I didn't realize I had been trembling until the thin smoke was done away with, and there was only the chipped mark of where the bullet had hit, straight in the bull's-eye.

"Such a good aim, m'lord has!" The obsequious intervention of a man who's known hunger at his time and who'd rather not do so in the future. They all meant to curry our favour here, but Robert was little but immune. He smiled sharply, and then examined the results of his efforts with dignified expertise and a sure hand. His fingers brushed over the heated spot, cleansing the dust to reveal a clean shot. No waver.

"Yes, yes, quite nice." Lawrence clapped politely, and a very smug Robert came along to try again. But Alucard's interest had been picked, perhaps because of the awe instilled as well as the silence when my cousin had decided to carry out this representation. There could be no doubt he had been admired. "Hand it over."

"You ever shot one of these?" My cousin balanced the gun, the pose of his hands complimenting its structure. "They're no child's toy."

"He's no child, is he?" said someone in the opposite corner, a one Miles Grey, unless I was mistaken. Which rarely happened, or at least as far as people's faces were concerned.

"That he's not," Lawrence asserted, and kindly passed Alucard Mister Grey's gun, to both Robert's displeasure and my personal unease. "Here. Do your best, though I'd advise you to come closer. This is too far away even for an experimented shooter, and"

Aim – flick – shoot. Once. Twice. Repeat. More smoke.

He'd moved with incredible speed, positioned himself negligently, without any calculation; but then Alucard was not the most patient of creatures.

Robert chuckled, pointing his pistol to the target. "You missed."

"So it would seem." Alucard's laughter was like a force that erupted and devastated all around it. Lawrence cringed momentarily, while the men, uninformed of our "friend" 's nature gave him frightened looks.

I stood my ground. "The sign of the inverted cross. How lovely. Please give Mister Grey his gun. I'm sure he has need of it." Miles Grey shook his head enthusiastically, but Alucard's sole response to this was an affected boredom… as he pointed the gun, this time to a new target, Mister Grey himself. "Does Mister Grey need it, hmmm?"

"Alucard."

He looked back at me with the corner of his eyes, just as Miles Grey, too shocked to move, gave me the example of the sort of behaviour I did not expect of my soon-to-be elite troops. "I'll give it back to him…but…you never did say where the bullets should be."

Damn him. "Robert, Lawrence, do take everyone out, if you will. Alucard and I need a word."

"Oh no, no, no," Alucard objected. "Not Mister Grey too. I like Mister Grey. I want to su—"

I felt compelled to resort to a different appeal. "Alucard. You've gone far enough."

"Have I?" said my tormentor, and he pulled the safety switch on and then off. He was playing, I knew, playing as cats do with mice when the whim so takes them, without either remorse or even the intention to do as asked of him. Miles Grey was aghast, sweat shining in a thin layer on what was visible of his face, chest, arms. "Sir…?"

"Alucard." I stepped forward. "Hand it over."

No movement. The edge of my voice grew cutting . "Alucard."

"Kester, stand aside, I'll be damned if I won't make him see reason." But I had no patience for Robert, paced further. "Alucard."

The vampire tensed, eyes narrowed in what was a feigned concentration. He could easily tear his head off without any bother, but it seemed as if the drama of it all appeased him.

"Sir, Please, please tell him to"

"Kester-"

"Christopher, maybe we should call—"

I paid them no mind, neared further. I finally reached him. Instants had turned into hours. "Take it," he murmured, sweetly, arms relaxing for a moment, as if willing himself to release the weapon. "Take it."

I froze in my place. Take it from him. It did appear to be such a remarkably simple order, but then… I couldn't. That weapon disgusted me in so many ways, had disgusted me when I had been forced to pick it from Robert as well, but he had surrendered it then, and it had never seemed to powerful in my cousin's hands.

Sickening.

Blood. Death. Destruction. I couldn't – fear was the spider that webbed in your soul, fear consumed all, fear knew no borders. Fear was corrupting me, burying me alive. I couldn't move.

I pulled out my handFlinched back – no, have to do to it- Unclenched my fingers.

So many deaths, all because of a gun. What a gun could do, time could not unmake, what a gun couldNo, I didn't, didn't want to touch it, didn't want to, didn't want to – ah, my arms, my arms hurt…

But as I fingered my arms, there was no pain there, only the tingling sensation of what could be, have been, a few very old scars made during some accident when I had been younger, dried blood from where my wrists had as of yet to heal from Alucard's attentions…

No pain. No true pain.

_Chris_...?

I didn't want to touch that gun-

"Sir, please…"

My eyes snapped open. It was not a question of my ability to do it, it was my responsibility to do so, damn it, damn it, damn it!

"Alucard, if you will," I said finally, and then placed my hands over his, meaning to unwrap his fingers.

Alucard tilted his head, grimaced. "How does it feel? Death, to know it could come at any point, to know you could demand its presence – how does this feel?"

I looked at him intently. He let go and vanished before I could even whisper the answer, "Cold."

"Sir? What'cha doing outside? You going to sleep among wolves again?"

"No, no, Mister Elliott, beg pardon should I have disturbed. Did I, per chance?"

"Neh. I saw you on the fields… no one else wears this shade of red. The old master did too, though."

"True."

"Are you all right, sir?"

"Oh, yes, yes, Mister Elliott… I just…can't sleep."

"Nightmares?"

"Pardon?"

"The old master used to have those too."

"Heh. Well, it would seem Father and I weren't entirely unlike. Nightmares are horrible things to have, Mister Elliott, and I enjoy these nocturnal walks."

"That you would. Although…sometimes, Mister Hellsing…sometimes, the worse nightmares aren't nocturnal in the least."

_Chris?_

** Author notes II:**

_Obedire__ est vivere / Vivere est obedire_

_"To obey is to live" / "To live is to obey". _

It's part of an exchange between Spartacus and the aristocrat Gracchus. Spartacus, trying to defend his cause, arguments that, to a slave, free will is an unknown and a lethal threat. Gracchus himself, at the time oppressed from his political adversaries and even allies, cynically notes that even to them, free men but men assigned with any a citizen's fortune, life is only an ensemble of decisions that others eventually take in their place.

I promised more frequent updates. I quote obviously lied, although unintentionally, rest you assured. Kester's growing increasingly hard to write, and I imagine it's because I'm nearing the end of his arch. Already, by the next chapter, there'll be an extra Point of View intertwined with his own. So, um, yes, say buh-bye to Kester…

Hope ye liked it any! (((-)) v! (the Zelgadis smiley urges you to say so)


	7. Chapter V

**Author's note:** raise your hands if you thought this was never going to be updated again!

-

**Christopher Hadrian Hellsing**

**Mezzo**

-

I called in so many favours that I was fairly confident that, between the fine and idle talk of gentlemanly pursuits and then some thinly veiled extortion, I had sold my soul to the devil. More than once. Possibly in shares to some minor demonic entities, too.  
However, I could not accomplish the first of the many things I had set out to see to an end, and it troubled me immensely that this one failing should rule out any and all possible alternatives.

"I need him in London," I told Lawrence during one of our revision sessions, when all matters of the Helling Trash Disposal Organization were discussed. "I need him in London, I need him in Gower, I need him _everywhere_. Don't you see? I need him with me at all times, but I can't have him while he's too weak to travel on his own, and lacking any papers to facilitate his legitimate transport."

"Ah."

I frowned. "You find a fault in my judgment? Some way out?"

"No, no. I follow," said Lawrence, graciously, "but I have to wonder whether having him with you constantly is all so very healthy for you."

I did not understand, and I blamed much of this on the fact that fatigue had taxed my friend greatly. He'd accommodated himself with what we could now safely call the Hellsing regime of atoning for one's every sin: poor sleeping habits, continual awareness. He had even adapted well on a social degree: Robert and he shared a glass, a bottle, several some on a daily basis. They had already done so for the evening. I reminded myself to be grateful for any mild coherence.

He pressed forward. "You're obsessed with him. You've grown as obsessed with saving him as your father was with destroying him." He seemed to consider. "But you _can't_ save him, not really. If you want to oppose everything your father stood for, by all means."

"Gods, but I don't mean to oppose Father, I loved him! I still do!" He bent over the table to pat me on the shoulder, laughed as I shook my head and tried to rid myself of his mad chatter. "Stop playing me the fool! I know what I'm saying, you vile drunk! I wake at nights and think of how good he was, and how kind, and how generous, and I ache that he's gone!"

"That's all very good, but filial guilt won't wipe out years of negligence while he was off and about in Europe, and you were withering in some college dormitory. I was there, remember?" His breath smelled of wine as it brushed over my ear. "I should know."

"How can you say that? How can you think I could ever feel anything but the greatest loyalty towards my father?"

He waved me off nonchalantly. "The loyalty's there, no doubt, or you would have told him to go to blazes while the old man was still alive and kicking. But it's in your blood to hate him, the part of him that was more vampire pursuer than father."

"You don't know the slightest thing about what you're saying." He was riling me up so fiercely that I knew I'd taken to a blush long before the burn spread over my cheeks. Damn him, who did he think he was? He knew nothing about this! He'd only been here a few days, and – I came to my feet and made to excuse myself. "I'm sorry, but in my condition, I can't be distressed. I must apologize and go rest-"

I never got to finish. He hit me with the back of his hand; he slapped me so that it stung, so that my head turned to the right, and I could feel the spot pulse into a swelling. "Don't ever use that as an excuse. I'm not your cousin, you can't be a coward with me. I won't stand for it. In the end, you'll do as you like. But don't make a crusade out of this, and don't call him your Holy Grail. You can't save him."

I staggered towards my room.

-

I made a purpose out of avoiding both Lawrence and my vivacious cousin for the following days, though it turned out that I need not even have bothered. I had another attack during the morning and Doctor Lewis consigned me to my bedroom, suspending my entire activity.

I noticed how it was Fiorelli who both saw him in and out, but said nothing of the matter. The Brother only nodded towards me in greeting and then farewell, as he little but haunted through the corridors. He'd grown so pale and so tired that I had begun to harbour certain suspicions that perhaps the chirpy young man whose acquaintance I had made in unfavourable conditions had been only a curious fragment of my imagination.

He asked for my permission to send a boy with his letters. Though it was a shared truth between us that his correspondence was kept in strict supervision, he had never established new rules to his situation, just as he had ceased trying to implement an intimate familiarity between us.

He was, in fact, perfectly at ease with overlooking our presence altogether, so long as no one interfered in his treatment of Alucard.

-

"I can almost smell your rotting."

Alucard was the only one I would allow to see me. He often repaid this privilege with snide remarks and an open criticism of my every gesture, but he'd grown an interest in my library, and so he would keep still and be perfectly complacent when I read from Plato.

He himself never read, though I knew it was within his abilities. He spoke a perfect Latin and a very fluid English, whose novelty he kept appropriating with every contact to the outside world. His French was something Father had noted on, and I knew he often threatened Fiorelli in his native tongue. That one quality of his diction that I'd noticed when I'd met him would still make itself apparent with undeniable constancy: it was not as if he spoke these languages of own accord, but more like he would borrow the words and the way in which they were spoken from a certain context.

He did not take kindly to failure. If he missed an accent, he would hiss through the entire phrase, and then slip into what I was certain was a tongue either of his making or from a time well before mine own. He did this to spite my in my lack of understanding, but I retaliated by coming to adore his tantrums as one would those of a horribly spoiled child.

He mastered the pistol with impressive ease and even exhibited an unrivalled aim. At all times, he was prepared to insinuate that we were the lesser in all respects, and often he remarked on how disagreeable I was not to compete with him.

"Your precision far outmatches mine, sir," I assured him on every time, and then retreated behind all physical restraints. "Besides, my arms wouldn't allow it." The burns on my arms and the strained muscles, yet another inheritance of a troublesome childhood, were only a façade for my more truthful disparagement of firearms. He never delved on it, so long as his supremacy was not contested.

I did not commit myself to grave and meticulous thoughts of why it was that I played such farces with him. It was simply natural of the both of us.

-

How remarkable will it appear, that, when finally presented with the opportunity to shatter all of the Council's fears and suspicions in one smooth blow - to bring them to their proverbial knees – to crush their dignity and reveal to them the true nature of our influence – well, how remarkable will it seem that, when given the chance to play a game of my making, I missed out on the event entirely?

Fiorelli's participation in this was by far the most notable. He presented himself to me with the adequate paperwork, and then the elaborated on the implications that the certain act would entail and how we could best avoid all altercations with the local authorities while pursuing it.

Lawrence was circumspect enough as to ask for further details, while Robert could barely be kept from jumping for his pistols. "A hunt! We have a hunt! Do you realize what this means? They're ours! What can they do? They're _ours_!"

But I realized exactly what it meant. "This is a risk we're taking. With them. With…him. He mightn't agree."

"That's not the issue, you'll just order him and-"

My cousin had evidently proven himself incapable of recording my stance on the matter, which was why I felt it imperative to reinforce it. "I will _not_ order anything. He is not a slave to us. He does not serve us. He's-"

"Distressed, yes, I know, gods, you'd think I'd know the entire speech by now!"

"Why so I would! I fail to see why you must insist on this matter, when it's very clear how I both feel and intend to act on it!"

Lawrence had poured himself a touch of Merlot, and was now sipping moodily. "Chris, calm yourself. You're obviously very tired by everything. Have you thought of… I know this shall sound awkward, but have you considered retiring from this? Only briefly, for a start, but given how things are, I certainly understand why you would need-"

"I don't need anything! And I'm not tired! I'm just sick of it! I'm sick of _him_ trying to rule with an iron fist, and I'm sick of you trying to mess with my head, after a week of being here! I'm sick of both of you trying to play at knowing how it feels! Stop it, because you don't. You can't. You can't, because you don't care at all for his welfare. You don't know the slightest thing about him!

"And you do?" Robert slapped my hand off the chair as I made to come to my feet. He pinned me down and looked me in the eye, as if he could find the answer to all his questions there. "You bloody idiot, _you_ do? You don't know nothing! You're just his silly puppet, and I hope to God he breaks you! I hope to God he breaks you so badly, you'll crawl back to us, and then let's you and I wager on whether I'll decide to take you back or leave you in pieces!"

Fiorelli intervened at this point. "Alucard understands the reason why the Council has permitted his stay under this household. And…" He flushed, if barely. "He's only too eager to reinstate his claim over his territory. If there's a vampire in England, he'll consider it his entertainment to dispose of it."

I motioned for Robert and Lawrence to see themselves off. Robert stormed out of the room, swinging the door in his passing, but Lawrence returned to close it slowly. I could hear my cousin's yelling through the corridors, and then Lawrence's attempts to hush him.

Fiorelli sagged his head, then straightened up forcibly. He looked wretchedly, I noted, and said as much.

"You're no thrill to the eye either, Hellsing."

"How could I be? They treat me as they would a child."

He shrugged. "Stop acting like one, then."

This unnerved me beyond solid reason. "Gods, I don't know why I bother! You don't understand either!"

"Don't I? Really now?" He laughed mirthlessly, let his eyes befall the table, rose them again. This time, he was serious. "Don't I? I've stayed at his side for six months more than yourself. I stay at his side when he's not all pristine and polished. I think I understand perfectly, _that_ I do."

For a moment, the silence between us was almost tangible.

"I'm sorry," I said all of a sudden. He nodded casually. "There's nothing to be sorry for. I don't pretend to understand _you_. I don't pretend to approve, either. You are the Hellsing Master. By your will and wish, all shall be done. For as long as you will want it so."

"I can handle this." I vacated my seat and contemplated walking out, only stopping to enforce my point. "And for God's sake, man, stop keeping to the indoors all day. Get out a bit, get some fresh air, see to your church or something… you…you look dreadful as you are now. How long have you been here? Six weeks? You're so pale I could hold a candle to your grave."

He laughed at that, and then ushered me out: "Why, Castor, I didn't know you cared."

-

I took long baths.

This was, to my knowledge, my greatest vice. I only very rarely drank, and never reaching amounts that would verge on the intolerable. Whom the old Cook had referred to, what with her talk of drunkards, I had my suspicions, but also the certainty that it was not my person.

I did not even eat, and I had no sugar tooth.

But I took long, hot baths.

Sinking in the water, I spared a thought, prayer and moment of gratitude to whatever fellow had invented plumbing. The warmth engaged my every sensitive nerve, weakened the strain of every muscle. Bliss must have been in Poseidon's area, I concluded.

As of late, however, I had to admit to a secondary interest in this unusual habit. Sometimes, when I closed my eyes… sometimes, when I willed them away… sometimes I could hear it.

I did so now, to no immediate result, I did so and waited.

The dizziness took me along with the heat, tempting, the true seductress. I couldn't feel my body, the weight loss, the physical process, I could name the law, but the sensation would still overwhelm whatever love for practicality.

_I could drown here. _I didn't know where the thought had come from, but it was both enlightening and highly amusing. I closed my eyes again, and I whispered it to myself, until my voice rang soft across the tiles. "I could drown here…"

Could I?

Really?

So much steam around me, my breaths were a pain. But I could drown here. I laughed. Choked. Laughed again.

I could drown here…

I could…

No.

I couldn't.

Never drown.

I could never drown.

My hair floating above me, in the water. Where was I? Ah, in the water too, I could hear it running. Looking up, up, little bumblebee…

_"Up, little bumblebee! Up, and then you become nana's little shark in the waters!"_

_ "No…" Didn't want. Couldn't drown. Was so young, they'd taken my toys. She brought me the duckie. I didn't want it. Too yellow. Hurt my eyes. Bright light hurt my eyes. Didn't want to go in the water. _

_ Scream. "Don't want to!"_

_ "Christopher, dearie, be nice for nana, come into the water, and—"_

_ "Don't want to!" _

Don't want to… too hard to breathe… have to get out of the water, have to…get out… out… moving. Yes. Feet. Slipping. Breathe. Breathe…

_ "Don't' want to! You can't make me! I don't want to, please don't!" Afraid. So dreadful. Too young, too afraid, mustn't go in the water. She had a beautiful soft voice, and she told me the tale of the duckie and young Christopher. I knew this one. I didn't like it. "I don't want to get into the water!"_

_ "All right, love, all right, no bath today – where are you going? I'll tell your mama, young man! Your brother Arthur would never run like that!"_

Moving. Yes, still moving. Breathe. Something – the wall? Is it the wall? Too dizzy. Can't see. It's cold, it can't be the wall. Support myself to it. Yes. So cold. I have a touch of fever. So cold. My eyelids are so hot over this surface. Perhaps… perhaps if I could become one with the cold. If my head could fall into it...fall…is that pain? So cold… it doesn't matter…

_"Pet, watch out so you don't slip! Oh, boy, didn't nana tell you to watch out! There, there, I'll just - Christopher, you've cut yourself! But…where's the…"_

_ …blood?_

Blood.

So much blood.

There was blood running down my forehead, thick and so hot, blood running down my cheeks, blood…

Blood on the bathroom mirror I had shattered when I bashed my forehead into it. The shards of glass had cut in deep. I collected one from the wound itself with a shaky hand. The steam pushed onto my lungs. I struggled to reach my adjacent dormitory and then fell on the bed. Father's bed, never truly mine, was it?

"Mad little corpse."

In the darkness, I took no more than a few moments to decipher his lean figure, the characteristic smirk. He was admiring the view, just as I often admired it when he himself made the perfect tableau.

"I cut myself shaving," I stated clearly, so he could hear me very well and remember, even though he had not even asked. "I can't see very well these days, and so I somehow aimed for the – well, you can see yourself."

He stared at the trickling blood, parted eyes with it reluctantly. Hellsing blood, it would always call to him. It was only then that I noticed that Alucard had brought a gift of sorts. He'd wrapped it in a few dirty cloths, and now he threw it at my feet.

I wouldn't pick it up.

I knew.

"A hound brings its master the bones," he recited, pleasantly, and then unveiled the head of a perfect monstrosity. The true vampire, I wanted to say, but he again abused the thin connection between us: _No, the true dinner. _

When I would not move it, he placed the head at my door, and I stood and looked at it in wonder, until dawns came and it turned into ashes.

-

It just so happened that when the Council adjourned to check the state of the manor, we were still celebrating our unrivalled success, and having very much the ripe fruits of victory to show for our trouble.

We were gathered in the main hall, with my troupes prepared and fully functional in accordance to the strictest military discipline. Robert made them no allowances, and his experience and that of a former army lieutenant, along with the detailed reports Cadwell's sons would send in sufficed in order to design a suitable schedule and skill development program.

The Council men looked perfectly ill at ease. My men were sharp and attentive. Robert and Lawrence were all smiles and chatter, whereas Fiorelli was casually munching on another brownie. It was one of the few times when he'd chosen to come down from his quarters, and I suspected he'd only graced us with his presence because of Alucard. Alucard… Alucard was breath-taking in every respect. He was no modest victor, but a lion with his teeth gritted and clenched very tightly around the delicate neck of its still writhing prey. He was proud to have taken the kill and prouder still to be given the chance to present it to those who had denied him his one talent.

I was at my most quixotic. "I shall not allow you to harm him. I shall not allow you to touch him or detain him in the smallest measure. He is one of us, now. He's part of this Institution. And there are fifty men now" – Henry Boleyn had sent in the remaining, and with his blessing, once the pounds had rolled into his always welcoming pockets –" willing to kill for this same Hellsing institution, and all that which it encompasses. We go by your rules, but you must find a flawless mean to assassinate the whole of us, if you intend to harm Alucard. These are my conditions. These are my men. This is my home. You may have them all, or nothing." There was shallow applause.

While there were no explicit protests, I quickly attracted a growing opposition. It occurred to me that these boycotting malcontents were in truth no more than deadly afraid of possible inclinations of tyranny on my part. But how could I convince them of my best intentions, when every performance to such would doubtlessly land them in the stern belief that I was also peerlessly sly and constantly scheming their downfall?

In the end, I had to face swift retribution for this feeble humiliation; I was alone during Council meetings, alone in whatever project that inevitably got vetoed down, and alone in carrying out nearly impossible orders. Given an increasing activity in the region, Alucard was in high demand. There was even word of settling a few very much human scores with his assistance, but I disengaged him from whatever mission I thought unsuitable.

This did not make me more popular.

But I was still Master.

-

News of my affliction had not spread out, though the servants were hesitant to approach me; if they could somehow avoid direct physical contact with me, they were only the more grateful. Any estate issue, they treated with Elliott; either Robert or Lawrence would produce the coin required for any domestic purchase; and if ever should anything truly have troubled them, they took the matter at Fiorelli's door, and were at peace with the notion that, though I had a singular contribution to their faring, and I implicated myself as much as humanly and politely possible in their affairs, I would not do anything to affect them openly.

But whether concern or superstition, their mannerisms towards me changed drastically.

"What's this?" Fiorelli looked over the tool I had given him with a sudden interest.

"I believe it's called cutlery, Castor."

"No, no, just look at it." He did. He liked not what he saw. "You can't cut with this."

"Exactly. You can only shred things apart, and even that through some vile effort. Cadwell?" Our butler appeared conveniently at my right, glancing towards the would-be-knife and then sighing mildly. "I know. I cannot help it, sir. I do not set the table, and they would not hand me in new silver for you, though of course I asked, once I saw it. They adamantly refused to do anything about it."

"So I'm supposed to use a knife that doesn't cut?"

Fiorelli coughed delicately, and then caught hold of my hand, pressing slightly on the thick bandages alongside my scarred wrists, ogling the bandages on my forehead intently. "Castor, I think that's rather the point."

-

Alucard's second undertaking brought me a rotten hand. After his third, I found a darkened heart on my pillow. I said nothing, but it all stopped. I considered it an oddity on his part, but then remembered. Three coins for the currier Charon, three deaths bought for.

Before the fourth task, I invited him to my office and placed a warm vial of my blood at his disposal. He would satiate his thirst with the blood animals, I knew, but this was the coin of the new age, the coin of his trade. To kill, he would desire payment.

He took it, and we never spoke of our private bargain.

No sooner had the eighth charge been seen to that Huxley grudgingly offered me His Majesty's gratitude for attending to such a delicate matter.

By the twelfth mission, Fiorelli passed me a note. Kinsella's intricate writing had spelled out a "Well done."

-

The Council and the Vatican finally consented to working together, in that I was bestowed a list of identities undertaken by what they believed to be vampiric entities, and therefore targets apt for elimination. I had dreaded this moment, but could nothing to prevent its coming.

I called Alucard and his escort in my quarters. By the rumple of Fiorelli's clothes, and the soft, amused flicker in Alucard's eyes, there was every appearance that they had only just squabbled, or even more. They rarely refrained from physical demonstrations of their power and tried to impress a such on each other, this I knew.

Thankfully, my orders were short, concise. I knew what I had to say, and I regretted every word of it, but it had to be done. This was, in truth, no more than a formality. I dared not call it an order, for I knew it would please him immensely, but I still felt obligated to Alucard for all that it implied.

"From tomorrow on, you are free," I began stoically, "Free to do away with as many of your kind that invade your territory as you see fit. Kill all vampires that stand in your path, if such is your desire."

I had expected a sarcastic retort, or some vague reference to my lack of authority in making him any a suggestion; instead, Alucard turned to Fiorelli. "The games are on."

The Brother shrugged elegantly. "This changes nothing."

I suspected that this had so much more to do with the darker games they played among themselves, with what went behind their closed doors and always ended with blood parted on both accounts and guilty looks between the brother and myself, once all was said and done. Alucard never complained of any maltreatment, but I hadn't the courage to ask that Fiorelli should perform the sealing rituals in front of me. It was just another of our unwritten accords.

Alucard submerged into the nothingness of his shadows, though I could twine my fingers in the air and feel them stumble over the thickness of his presence. I said nothing. He had grown unimaginably possessive of what he deemed his, and a tentative Master was no different.

Fiorelli's expression was as jovial as ever. I suspected he'd had a large portion of the lemon cakes displayed at dinner, as they alone would replenish his good humours. Had I ever seen this man truly dejected? I couldn't recall it, if so.

Still smiling, he offered me his hand. I took it, bemused, and then felt the small pieces of rough parchment as eh slipped them by. I looked about, and he only nodded that yes, it was safe to open them in public.

"Bible pages?"

"You remember what I told you in the train?" I did, to some meagre extent. He continued, slowly, "You're the Hellsing now, for better or worse. Always carry a Bible on you. Particularly around _him_."

I thanked him for his gift of words and paper, however redundant I found it.

"Castor, show a little trust!" He laughed again, another of his very generous laughs; I decided that he was right, and that he had never truly proven himself untrustworthy. I laughed with him, and promised to cherish his gift.

That was the last time I ever saw Brother Fiorelli.

-

I left for London before dawns had cracked and before Gwendolyn – delayed a second time- could make an appearance. Apparently, Lance had got terribly sick, and she feared his health would only deteriorate substantially were the boy to be exposed to the hardships of a journey. Robert expressed high doubts that his son would ever acquit himself of the hardships of his _gender_, at this rate.

Though the farewells were, by majority, cordial, I did not miss the side glance thrown idly between Robert and Lawrence, and silently urged myself to accept their conspiratorial demeanour. Cadwell made to slide me Robert's pistols, when the latter wasn't looking.

"They're good guns, sir," he whispered cautiously, "they'll serve well to a gentleman in a dangerous place."

I thanked him profusely but renounced the gift with a tad of disgust. "London's my home, my true home. I'll be all right."

With Alucard's coffin guised as commercial goods, and an appropriate bribe in the even more appropriate pockets, we made for London.

-

It revealed itself to be a forlorn matter of jurisdiction.

During the negotiations with Section Thirteen, my mind persisted to conjure unnatural images of hawks tearing the map of Europe in bloodied beaks, waging war with one another in a flutter of feathers and high-spirited indignation.

The Hellsing organization was apparently not the only one interested in the Trash Disposal of the Cradle of Civilization. We were, however, the only ones with a fully functional vampire operating on our side, which gave us a considerable advantage.

I endeavoured solely in modest schematics. "Gentlemen, if you will. Let us all listen to the call of our blood. England is for the English to supervise. That is all I ask for." French was the language of talk among them, and though I thanked my Oxford education for saving me the embarrassment of requiring a translator, I was not at all remarkable in employing it.

I had thought things would go smoothly with such a plea, but it turned out that Rome wished to keep hold and watch over all the areas they would influence religiously; they were only too hesitant to cede us Ireland. I thought this not at all amenable. "Fine, then, but we'll have the Triangle in its stead."

There was great muttering, general dismay, and talk of my overall insanity. Kinsella gave me the sweetest smile and answered in English, "But Mister Hellsing, you _know_ how fond I am of Milano."

Seven minutes later, they forfeited Dublin.

-

But have I not mentioned that fortune could indeed be kind?

Chance smiled down on me, and among the many invitations issued to my house in London, we ran upon one whose request for a confirmation had long expired, with the gathering itself having yet to take place. As a familiar of the matron, I scribbled down a short note of apology as well as explicit thanks for her offer, and then lavished in how Desiree Mont had just as graciously underlined all guests were encouraged to bring their own company.

I took Alucard to what announced itself as the year's greatest party, in spite of it being only very little into the new year. Though I made no specification as to such, it was understood that he would conduct himself appropriately. I imagine this obeisance was owed partly to having accustomed himself to conforming to orders, and partly to a burning curiosity as to the nature of this modern society. I lost him ten minutes into the event.

The reason behind our presence here was crucial in its own little way. Alucard was still in dire need of papers, and I had yet to cash in the true amount of the favours I was still entitled to. Desiree Month was a lovely thirty, and a lovelier diplomat, and her numerous husbands could provide me with what I had in mind. Unfortunately, I could not see her.

A brief half of hour was spent avoiding my mistress, and then squeezing her hand gently and feigning an absolute adoration of the newest tricks she'd done with her hair. Her newest patron smiled charmingly, but he would only glare glacially and not even return my salute two days after.

So far, so much time lost.

I lifted my wine glass in silent toast to Alucard, when our eyes met. He did not answer, though he had caught notice of the gesture itself. Instead, he devoted the entirety of his attention to the circle of raving intellectuals, as hungry as ever for the new research material that the dear count could provide.

I was only just about to go on a wild hunt for the matron, when she approached me, sliding her silky hands and tying them around my right arm. She gave me a luxurious smile –she always had been a remarkably beautiful woman- and then her fingers found the rim of my glass. "May I?"

"Certainly." I laughed at her childish cravings. Desiree was one of the few women of the time whose favour could bring far more than any a man's. She had an eye for the precious and the beautiful, and seeing how her estimations were seldom flawed, her investments were equally prolific. She never doted on things, however, but on people. Her Coterie summoned the poor and the rich, so long as they were heavenly interesting or could provide, in the absence of a knack for outstanding conversation, the financial means to cater for whatever the groups' whims.

She licked her lips appreciatively. "A good liquor."

"Only French."

"How delightfully patriotic of you!" She laughed. I failed to mention how my true allegiance actually went to Italian brands.

Her voluptuous glance followed mine, and for a moment we both openly stared at Alucard, now entertaining two well known writers. "You know him?"

"Yes… I should ask for a word with you in private about him, all truth be said. Will you please join me in the gardens?"

"Outside, in the dark, _alone_? Just the two of us? Christopher Hellsing, are you planning to do something horribly indecent to me?"

I affected a lecherous smile. "_Never_."

"Mmmm, then maybe I won't join you."

But she did.

"So who is he?"

I did not feel comfortable with revealing too much of the truth. She was not unintelligent, for all her four husbands, and I did not mean to give word to gossip. "He's someone…someone uniquely close to me."

"Oh _my_. Christopher, you devil, after all these years, are you trying to tell me my shameless advances were in vain? Didn't know you ran that way."

How delightful. Either Lawrence and Desiree were uniquely conscientious of the matter, or all of London had conspired to unmask all bisexuals in sight, and fabric itself a few, even where there weren't any. "I don't."

"How nice." The words were plain, but she spoke them from the heart. "So tell me, what can I do for you?"

"It's more of a question of what your husband can do for me."

"My husband?" A few seconds of puzzle. "Number…?"

"Four, the present one."

"Oh. Then it'll be easy. Thank you for ridding me of number three, by that matter."

Number three, also known as James Bridell had been unusually vindictive, and as intent on keeping a hold of his fortune as any. Alas, Desiree had somehow procured evidence of his unfaithfulness - I retained the private belief that he was perfectly innocent – and so he had been faced with public humiliation. Unsurprisingly, he was still at her beck and call. "Well, I'm afraid I could only be a lady's knight and champion in court. I…my friend would require some papers."

Her expression suddenly grew serious. "The sort of papers that could get us all in a muddle?"

"Yes."

"He's special to you, all right, but who is he to the rest of the world? What did he get himself into?"

"It's not like that." No, not like that at all. "He's not one of my more mischievous clients."

Mischievous interest again. "Then why are you helping him?"

"He needs me."

"And you can't dispense of him?"

"No. Nor would I want to. It's just…he's exceptionally good at what he does."

"And that would be?"

I mumbled furiously. "Sucking the life out of me."

-

I had his papers in a matter of two days. Desiree entrusted them and a series of obligatory pleasantries to a young envoy, and she insisted in particular that a bottle of her best brandy should reach me unharmed; to the outsider's eyes, House Hellsing was lavishing in the generosity of a very devoted friend. To those of us having to live with Alucard, heaven had finally opened its gates.

I took as much advantage of things as humanly possible.

In retrospect, perhaps there was a certain haughtiness at play, when I insisted with several motions that the Council found themselves extorted to approve of.

I had him voted every possible honour. He became _Lord_ Alucard in a week and was then reinstated to his title of Count a few days after, even though the office itself was inactive and ineffective. He was even granted an estate and lands of his own in the place of his choosing – Whitby, he wanted a church – although he could not ever visit them on his own. I only resigned my position as his advisor in all financial interests when Huxley kindly approached me after one heated session and let it slip very kindly, "Just so you know, the Crown's already been taken."

-

_Sometimes, if you gave him your hand, Arthur would pretend to read your fortune. He was doing it now. I could see his frown of concentration. I was very, very still, and he kissed the palm. "See? Nothing."_

_ "Aren't you going to read it?"_

_ Isn't that what he always did? My fingers were plump and pink and he pinched them savagely. I wanted to fist them up, but couldn't. He saw my hesitance and smiled. "Come on, do it."_

_ "Can't."_

_ "Can too."_

_ "Can't."_

_ He folded my hand for me. It hurt. It hurt so badly, that I numbed all over, and I couldn't feel it anymore._

_"See," he said evenly, "nothing at all."_

_ I asked myself whether I had also been too numb the day before… too numb to feel _it_ fall when he had driven it into my knuckles. _

_ It had hurt then. I told him so._

_ And Arthur smiled again, and kissed my palm a second time, and then he said, "Nothing can hurt you now, Chris."_

My dreams were none the kinder.

-

I returned to Gower.

There was no warm welcome, and whatever military salute I might have jokingly instigated the first time around, when Robert had only just taught the boys the works was now absent. The place might well have been abandoned, though the servants were as active as ever.

It occurred to me that I was being ignored.

Robert was lecturing the fellows on the disadvantage of a particular shooting stance when I made my presence known in his area.

"Oh. You're back." He let me wait until he'd finished his display, but was neither decisively hostile nor scornful. Instead, he was as uncaring as one could imagine him. "Have you seen Lawrence?"

I shook my head.

"Well, if you don't intend to see him soon, then at least send Fiorelli to him. There're a few matters he wants to-"

Though a light service, I found his treatment of me repugnant. "I'm not your call boy. Have whomever fetch Fiorelli from his quarters."

He stopped in his track, all too suddenly. "You mean he's not with you?"

"With me? What do you mean? I left Fiorelli here. With you. Frankly, I fail to see how it is you could have overlooked this small aspect."

But I realized just how severe the situation was when his eyes widened in shock, and then mild agitation. "We thought he was with you, that you'd taken him with you to oversee Alucard and just hadn't said so, because you've been so infuriatingly peeved."

With me? But of course I hadn't! And I'd regretted not having the priest at hand during several times in my travel. "So he's not here."

For reasons unknown, this brought a bitter taste in my mouth.

When Lawrence also came by, the three of us went to search his rooms. Nothing. His earthly possessions were still present, to be sure, with the exception of some small nothings. His Bible, his rosary. The sort of small things that one would carry in a journey.

"We must write to the Vatican," I told them calmly, and then proceeded to act out said intentions. Kinsella needed to know. _Someone_ needed to know.

And they had best have Fiorelli back to us.

I was on my way back to London within the hour.

For reasons unknown, I had an inkling of yearning to see my father. The cemetery was quiet.

Seeing how the body had been turned in to me in a very advanced state of discomposure, I had never assisted to the burial place. We had had a brief ceremony at the house, punctuated with charming words muttered by a significant number of the clergy. Then the body had been moved out to the cemetery.

I'd not come to see my father since. Not once in three months. To think back, I had not even worn the mourning cloth, no more than the first two days, and that was that.

I had to pick up Alucard. Yes, that was it. Lawrence can't have been right, because I loved my father. I did. I truly, truly did. And I should have given anything, my life first and foremost, to have him among the living.

Still, I never came to see him.

If I had, I would have immediately opposed and made any necessary effort to have my father buried near Mama, rather than in a recluse crypt that he had apparently deemed apposite in his will. I knew that Arthur had been buried there, and my grandfather as well. I'd never come to see them either. Maybe I simply hadn't it in me, a taste to rejoice in the company of the dead.

"Gives you the chills, doesn't it?" If the deplorable sight of thick and cold stone, and the weeds and grass shadowing it did not achieve this exact effect, then the grave digger's silky voice did. I didn't think of when he had crept up on me; it was the never ending cliché that grave diggers were prone to such things. Breaking said custom, however, this one was neither vehemently pale, nor did he suffer from any formidable deformation. In fact, he was quite pleasant to look at. A bit plump, a bit red to the face, but all in all friendly. I shook his offered hand. "Yes. It does."

"I don't know why he had the crypt done. Not the habit here. Foreign gentlemen, yes, foreign habits."

"Might I see them?"

"You family?"

"You could say so." I was not inclined to introducing myself, and then the entire spectacle warranted by such an occurrence. He'd either show an inappropriate enthusiasm at another Hellsing having come by, or shrink away in a haste. It all depended of just how much of the rumours had gone out.

"No one but family's supposed to go in there. Can't see why. " I could. Gold-hunters. "But I've not been there to replace the flowers in a while, so perhaps I should."

"Flowers?" This bemused me. I had given no orders that flowers should be placed at my father's tombside constantly. Papa was far too pragmatic to have appreciated them.

"Yes. The old Hellsing's lawyer visited, and he said, Jeremiah, " – that was him- "there'll be flowers coming from a mister Vanderpool, friend of mister Hellsing's. You put them in that crypt, and you make sure they stay there. It was in his will, the suit said, so that's what I've been doing."

I recalled a mention of a Mister Vanderpool, but could not place the name altogether. I doubted we had ever met. My companion fled to his little hut, and when he returned, a thin lacing of white flowers hung by his neck. The smell was more than familiar. "Garlic?"

'Yes. They look pretty enough, though." I refrained any further comments. We went down and down and down. "Do they always build them so deep?"

Jeremiah laughed. "No, not at all. No use for them heavy doors, either. I think, I do, that the old man wanted to make sure that no one could get in or out, not even the dead."

I frowned, mildly. "The dead?"

"Spirits, sir. What else?" I did my best to avoid slipping on the impromptu stairs. Yes, of course, what else?

The inside of it was gloom materialized. It was unbearably dark, and I did not distinguish my father's love for the outdoors in his final choice for decay and decrepitude. There were thankfully no rats, and I could not stop vermin of any sort. Jeremiah seemed to tend to he cleaning, though no doubt he too found it a troublesome aspect of his daily obligations.

"Well, looks like they kept well enough." He motioned for the stack of garlic flowers strategically placed near each tomb. The flowers were so white against the black of it all, it was sickening. I paid my respects to grandfather in passing, and then to Arthur, just as half-heartedly.

I only stopped in front of the tomb bearing his name, "Abraham Hellsing, beloved husband, father and researcher." I made the sign of the cross swiftly – why bother when I did not believe in it? – and then kneed and thought of whether he would have appreciated a prayer. I knew a few. You did not grow to be the son of Abrahama Hellsing and not have the semblance of a theological education.

In the end, I said nothing. I had imagined I would be overcome by grief and memories and have some fond recollection of the old man and his wisdom. I had even hoped I would please cry. I spent a minute there, in a silence undisturbed even by Jeremiah's changing the flowers, and I listened to my heart. I listened to its beat, and told myself I was still alive, and then I wondered why I felt nothing. Nothing. My father was dead, and I knew I loved him – but all I could think about was how Alucard would be waiting for me, needing me, and how I didn't have the time to waste.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to him, and then took a handful of earth and scattered it over the stone, until it covered his name. I started backing away, and then louder, I said, "We can go now. Thank you for letting me see—Ah!"

Jeremiah tsked as he let go to my arm, though only after levelling me so that I wouldn't fall in a hole dug near Father's grave. I hadn't seen it. "My bad. Nearly fell in."

"Yes, should have told you to look out for it. Don't worry, though, it's only that one. The old man had it dug up before he..." He waved his hand. "You know. Said 'twas for the young lord. That's all this is s'pposed to hold: the old man, and the older sir before him, and the boy, and the young gentleman."

I could recognize them as my father, grandfather and brother respectively. But something intrigued me. "Young gentleman?"

"Yes. This is s'pposed to be where he'll rest, so said the old man. Ugly place to sleep, among all the rats, but these lordlings know."

"But who is he?"

He shrugged a second time, and then kicked a bit of rubble, watched it fall and then make room for the rising stone. Clean, well cut, even better sculpted. The writing was clear.

I said, very weakly, "This grave's for him?"

"Yes, for him, " nodded Jeremiah shakily, " I told you, it's for the lordling, Christopher Hellsing."

-

My house in London was of Victorian construction, but with all the facilities and particularly safety measures of the contemporary times. I was not at all at ease to find such devices spited upon entering my "humble abide" and noticing others had already opened the door and made themselves comfortable.

Where his men were lingering in my kitchens, Kinsella himself waved towards the spot near him on the sofa. "Have a seat, Mister Hellsing." No "Welcome Home, Kester!", no "Hellsing, old boy! Let's have ourselves a jolly good time!".

"Why thank you for providing me with my own house's hospitality, Monsignor Kinsella, but I'll decline. I'd rather stand." I was still piqued over the affair of my father's papers, and the overall secrecy under which the Vatican governed our relations.

"Very well. Do you mind if I…?" I shook my head and signalled that yes, Desiree's brandy could finally be rightfully appreciated. He poured himself a full glass, and took his time with tasting it slowly. But the matter couldn't suffer any more delay. "We…we found him."

I didn't have to ask whom he was referring to. By the tone of his voice and the subdued look in his eyes, I already regretted not having accepted his offer at the proper time. I tried to collect myself but failed to see the opportune moment to do so.

Kinsella said something, and then I let myself fall in a chair. I repeated his words, fazed. "He's dead…"

"Yes. I would offer my condolences, but… " He slipped me a number of picture cards instead. Years of training in homicide cases should have prepared me to greet the unseemly sight with a stiff upper lip, but the severe mutilations to the piece of meat – that's all there was to him now, just meat – were terrifying. But something else caught me aback. "That's not Tomaso Fiorelli."

Kinsella shook his head. "Yes, it is. And the worse part is, this is the first time you're truly meeting him." What…? He went on, reluctantly. "Tomaso Fiorelli is a name present in the registries of all the countries within our jurisdiction, with a nearly universal citizenship and an enviable immunity. Naturally, Brother Tomaso Fiorelli does not exist, and is only a part for one of our agents to fill. As you by now know, the secrecy of our contributors is sacred in written correspondence. We prefer pseudonyms, for obvious security reasons. We cannot afford that a small letter should compromise our agents." A pause, if brief. He needed to gather his strengths and his thoughts.

"During our first meeting, you mentioned Fiorelli as the author of the missives that came to Vatican. I couldn't remember then why this particular detail startled me, but then I remembered, and so I ran the necessary investigations. Alberto Giovanni di Carlo, the last of our agents posing as Tomaso Fiorelli died six months ago, while tending to your pet in London. They found him somewhere near Saint Paul's. He'd lost so much blood, the tissue was exhausted. You could barely tell he'd once had a face, let alone what that face had been"

But he had a small tattoo on his left arm, an ember inscription of the "Anima Mundi" that I had never seen on Fiorelli. It can't have been him. But then my Fiorelli wasn't Fiorelli, was he? "That can't be. I – we—how could the Vatican –"

"Whomever your Tomaso Fiorelli was, he had the codes and the knowledge to infiltrate our ranks and emulate the conduct of one of the clergy. But make no mistake, he was never part of the Vatican's Section Thirteen."

"Perhaps not to your knowledge?" That was certainly a possibility. If it could happen once, it could happen any a number of times. "Could – could this be something to go over your head? Or something you've merely not heard of, or-"

"Mister Hellsing, I assure you, you've recently given us every reason to put all cards on the table and take your vampire _very_ seriously." I did not ask what he meant. I thought of Alucard placing a head at my feet, and foreknowledge bit down deeply.

"So Fiorelli – that is… " I could barely find the right words. "The man I knew as Fiorelli… he's not dead?"

"I can't say." He shrugged. "He must have foreseen his identity would be discovered and planned his departure in accordance. I must say, however, he played things rather well. His letters to us kept us at bay. The Vatican was certain Father Cesare was with you."

"But on that day you said that Father Cesare – "

"On that day, I didn't know half the things I do now."

"So Father Cesare was supposed to be with us." This made no sense at all. "To who had they entrusted Alucard's care? Fiorelli said he'd been with Alucard during the exact time when you say this Giovanni fellow died."

"They only found di Carlo a few days ago, and assessed the time of his demise by the state of the body's discomposure. As I've told you already, that wasn't the easiest of things."

"How could the Vatican have overlooked such a thing! An agent coming and going as he pleases? Doing what he likes? How could they be so careless?"

"Look, _three_ units! No more than three…and no less. Tomaso Fiorelli and Lucretia Sarlatini of espionage and Alexander Anderson of the elite execution! Today they're your best friends, tomorrow God knows who they are! _We_ do not know, sometimes! This is the system! It's messed up, I _will_ give you that! But the passwords, and the words, and the addresses – these are all things that should and could never have been found out! I don't know who your "Fiorelli" was, but he was simply too good." Somehow, this described casual, boisterous, negligent Fiorelli perfectly.

"But Cesare knew him," I argued, after thinking things through. "When we first met him, Cesare knew him. He blabbered something about Fiorelli, how they'd left him there too long, something about an Iscariot conflict, I don't know! The point is that he knew him! How?"

"I can't answer you that. The only one who could was Father Cesare, and now he's dead."

"This can't be happening. This…wait. _Wait_. If the Vatican thought Cesare was with me, what about the humble detail of his death?"

"We…" He looked deeply ashamed. "We didn't tell them then. We didn't know… didn't think this was so important at the time…"

"Important… _Important_?" Were they mad? Sheer and utter madness, yes, only this might have explained how they could ever have gone over any detail that concerned as uniquely vulnerable as Alucard! How could they? How could they! "Sir, how many vampire situations have you had to thread with in your time?"

"Exactly! We've never had to deal with this sort of thing before! If you were half the man your father was in certain aspects, we still wouldn't have to deal with this!"

"I apologize that my existence is forcing you to see to your job. It must be a terrible thing to do." My sarcasm went unnoticed, or perhaps unheeded. He was taking things seriously now, at least, or so I thought it. There was only so very little he could do, though, wasn't there? The true harm had been done, and to our likely detriment. "Why would he do this? Why would anyone willingly subject themselves to Alucard, and then save my life, and then… no, save my life more than once and then… then… what the hell did he do next? He helped! He _helped_! That's what's so inconceivably pestering to me! Why would he risk his life, and chance being discovered while furthering no personal project, to help us restrict Alucard for so long?"

And then suddenly Kinsella put forth the only motion I had truly dreaded, the only one I would rather have not considered, the only one that could bring us down. "Are you sure he was helping you?"

I was exhausted by the time the interview drew to a close, and also privately thankful for the modern miracle of vaguely harmless sleeping powders. But God's newly fond sense of enthusiasm of tormenting his least loyal of disciples kept me from sleep.

The phone rang at half past three in the morning. I hoped it'd die off and the unhappy caller would recall himself and the time, but Robert insisted until, muttering and mumbling, I bade him a good morning.

"Kester, you won't believe this."

"Please, I'm sick of that phrase. I'll believe anything by now, can't you tell?" If someone accosted me in court the following day, claiming his pet vampire had come to wage war and rule the world and was having a distinctly good time chewing his shoes, while at it – well, my first response would probably have to be something along the lines of, "I broke mine from the habit. Try sheep shaped chew toys."

There was a fair bit of murmuring in the background, and so I realized he wasn't alone. I was suddenly more animated. "Is Fiorelli there? Has he been found?"

"No, no…but this concerns him. He- oh, hang on, I'll give you Lawrence."

Lawrence sounded even more excited than Robert himself. "Chris? Chris, you won't belie-"

"No, I _will_, trust me."

"Well, that makes one of us, God knows I barely did! I remembered! But that wasn't enough, so I had the pictures sent to me, and now I know it's true!" I could barely hear him, the connection was deplorable. He kept talking, obliviously. "I told you how I knew Fiorelli from somewhere, remember that?"

I did. "But he said he didn't-"

"Never mind what he said! I know it, because I have the pictures!"

"Pictures?"

"It was all over the newspapers, but I couldn't recall! Mama did immediately, of course! We ogle them on every Christmas, and then she bawls some, but that's not the point – the point is – the _point_ is that she found them and sent them over! They're clips from an interview taken in Berlin, when my father went to see to the state of their bank's representation there. They'd just decided to improve their image and support a set of local hospitals! They took his picture with a doctor there, and then with him shaking the hand of a wounded solder."

"And?"

"And that soldier was Fiorelli!"

There was something Lawrence was clearly missing out on. I decided to enlighten him. "Fiorelli is a well-standing operative." Whose, however, I could not tell. "He must have been travelling in order to secure something on that side of the border, I can't know, but that's likely to have been him during one of his assignments. I don't see why this should matter now."

Lawrence laughed for a moment, took his time, laughed again. I was growing increasingly more furious, but retained some vestige of calm in the name of civility.

Finally, he spoke. "But Chris, these pictures were taken thirty-five years ago."

Fiorelli himself had never looked a day past twenty-five.

-

I poured myself a drink from the canter and took small, deep breaths. There was always the slight possibility that what was in truth a perfectly natural circumstance could divulge itself as another vestige of the supernatural, but I had every wish to play this in the boundaries of a sagacious perception of reality. In real life, people did not live to sixty and look less than half their age. Therefore, Fiorelli may well have had a look-alike, or Lawrence could have been mistaken, given the quality of most newspaper photo clips.

On the other hand, in the real life I had known no more than three months ago, vampires were also perfectly inexistent. Damn it, this would also explain Fiorelli's coldness towards Lawrence. Had he feared recognition? But how could he even know that Lawrence himself would have ever caught sight of the pictures? Mayhap the last name? I strived to think of a possible explanation but came out empty-handed. And even if this was the truth of it, then _what_ was Fiorelli? It came to me that he wasn't even Fiorelli, was he?

_Alucard_. No touch, no thought, no presence. He had pursued me unsympathetically during my trips, and so I knew that he too presently resided in London. But he had obviously left my surroundings, mayhap had gone in reconnaissance. This was London, I wanted to shout, this was home, there was nothing unknown here! And yet I couldn't. I'd lived with the unknown in my own house, under my very nose, and I'd never quite understood what'd come to pass. Who was Fiorelli? Would Alucard even know?

Wait. I had to do my waiting.

I went back to sleep and dreamt of Fiorelli playing with headless lambs in the woods.

_ His curls were thick and wavy, he looked the innocent as the lambs approached him with no hesitance._

_ I was young, very young, I was holding Arthur's hand. I mouthed: "Stay away from him! He's bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!" but I had no voice._

_ Arthur wouldn't speak, and the headless lambs danced around Fiorelli, and he petted them. He had a very kind smile when he turned at me. "They want to eat."_

_ But they had no heads._

_ "They want to eat."_

_ But they…couldn't…_

_ "Will you keep the poor lambs unfed, Chris?"_

_ Chris…_

_ And then it wasn't Fiorelli anymore, no, the eyes were far too feral, and it was Alucard, and he was saying something, and this time he was the one who couldn't be heard, and I was screaming atop my lungs. "I can't hear! Talk louder! I can't hear!"_

_ His whisper was very guttural, and so harsh. I could barely make it out. "Whatever did you do to that brother of yours?"_

_ Nothing… I hadn't…nothing. Arthur was there, holding my hand, holding it… no longer, where?_

_ Arthur had backed away in the clearing, and he was holding his hand over his heart, horror-stricken, and – _

_"Chris? "_

_No._

_"Chris?"_

_Not again!_

_"Chris, don't! Chris!"_

_No, no, no, no, no!_

_"Whatever did you-"_

I awoke with a start, and still screaming. "ALUCARD, BEGONE FROM THOUGHT AND SIGHT!"

There was only the shadow of his presence, and then nothingness.

I wanted to kill him.

I wanted to kill him so badly that I almost sent out a second order that he should kill himself. But I didn't. Instead, I fed this impulse with little action and instead opted for moderation. Meditate. I had a number of things to think about.

For an entire hour, that's all that I did.

-

I thought of the gloriously perfect brother who had died a mysterious death.

I thought of the father who would not answer my letters.

I thought of my allowing Alucard access to the most private parts of my mind, even when Fiorelli had discouraged me from such a breech.

I thought of the mother who had suddenly wanted her precious younger son dead.

I thought of dreams lost and dreams forgotten.

I thought of my weakness and an old illness.

I thought of the inexplicable tie that would only bind Alucard and House Hellsing.

I thought of my inability to hold a gun.

I thought of _everything_.

And then I remembered.

-

Hours came, hours went.

When Alucard returned, I was still savouring my drink. What was it? Whiskey? Brandy? Liquor? What was it? I couldn't remember. The taste of it was sour and sweet on the tip of my tongue. I couldn't remember

"I did it, didn't I?" My voice was husky, foreign to my ears. Alucard regarded me with a curious look that then moved to my glass, almost pensively. _In vino veritas_, but I somehow doubted this was wine at all. The truth, however, was too wild to be contained. The truth was a beats, finally roaming free. The truth was the dramatic climax of all newspaper titles, written out in big and shiny letters.

The truth stared me back in the eye, and his name was Alucard. "Why, Alucard? Why like this?"

"I'd do anything to find out," he cited, malevolently, and I could see how he would manipulate even the most innocent of statements to thrive the most harm for me.

He has clearly tied himself emotionally to you. Perhaps he has even done so to far too powerful a degree.,_ merely the nearest living being he may grasp after such a long time. That you are a Hellsing, above all else, may not serve as much to your advantage as you had believed it would..._ I hated to think of Fiorelli just now, but his words rang in my ears, uncalled for.

I had a secret. The six-year-old Christopher Hellsing had had a little secret. And now the six-and-twenty year-old Christopher Hellsing wasn't brave enough to even acknowledge it.

Alucard was smirking at my impotence. It didn't matter. I wanted to say he was distressed, but a monster who'd dig so deep, deep into my mind, and then play the lord of memories was not distressed. He wasn't mine to protect.

And I still had a secret.

"If I say it, I'll make it true." Alucard nodded. It took a sip from my glass to utter it. Two. Three. I had refilled it a second time without even a thought. And then I said it. "I killed Arthur."

He moved far faster than the eye could fathom. Or maybe only faster than _my_ eye could follow? I couldn't tell. I kept fixing my glass, and the golden tint in it. What was it? I laughed. I should be able to remember what it was I was drinking. I took an additional sip. I still couldn't remember.

Alucard was unsmiling. "How kind of you to finally remember."

He took my hands in his larger own, and he kissed every finger with a predatory appreciation for the warmth he could absorb with every lingering touch. No bloodlust now. Nothing.

I couldn't stop laughing.

I couldn't stop.

"I will vanquish all your enemies. I will kill and be killed in the name of the god Hellsing. I am the soul keeper, that which the ancients revered in their love for the perfect kill. I am destruction come anew. And I'll destroy them, and then every one of you Hellsing, so help me all hells…My slave. My Master."

The vehemence in his vow was an unwritten obligation; he demanded that I should return his resolve, his perfect loathing, his passion.

Instead I said, "Am I crying?"

He laughed with me, over my nameless-yet-known drink.

I was.

-

**Author's note: **

First off, beg pardon for the delay. I could come up with these fascinating excuses, but fact of the matter is, I flirted with the idea of abandoning this far too many times. Alas, I didn't. A small secret? I've never finished a multi-part fic in my entire life. I'd love to make a start out of this.

You can probably work out the entire tale on your own, by now. Who "Fiorelli" was and worked for, what the Arthur tale conveyed, what it all drove to. I think that you probably still need one piece to the puzzle for it to be glaringly obvious, though very deep searching through past chapters will likely reveal everything.

You know, I never expected to treat this as a detective story, but I'm kind of amused with how it turned out. For those of you awaiting grand action: I did say Kester's part was about finding out the reason why only a Hellsing could control Alucard, didn't I? Action in Integral's Papa's part, and then full out Drama in Integral's.

Still one more chapter of Kester to go. Review and make the poor lad happy?


End file.
